Flesh And Blood

THE FUNICULAR SET us down on a concrete platform, and we walked to a waist-high redwood-and-glass fence set twenty yards behind the cable unit. The barrier stretched the width of the property – at least three hundred feet – and halfway to the northern edge; a husky man in a gray uniform stooped and sprayed glass cleaner from a blue bottle. The area between the cliff edge and the fence was a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of packed brown Malibu dirt. No need to conserve space; the expanse before me was twenty acres minimum, maybe more.

Twenty calculated acres. The earth had been bunched into too-gentle slopes of a symmetry that would’ve amused Mother Nature, then cloaked with emerald sod. Beds of tropical vegetation had been cut into the grass, and medallions of flowers sprouted bauble-bright. Granite paths, some hooded by pink marble arbors laced with scarlet bougainvillea, others sun-whitened, sickled through perfect lawns under the selective shade of specimen trees. Maybe half a thousand trees, grouped in copses and pruned sculpturally, as calculated for size and shape as Cheryl’s breasts. The beat of the ocean continued to work its way up. But it competed now with new water music – waterfalls, at least a dozen minicataracts, tumbling into rock pools that seemed to sprout from nowhere. The soda spritz of skyward-aimed fountains jetted from free-form rock ponds, some occupied by swans and ducks and pink flamingos. Bird cries in the distance didn’t belong to any native species, and something that might’ve been a monkey shrieked.

I said, “Sounds like someone’s got a zoo.”

“All kinds of animals,” said Cheryl, smiling enigmatically and moving several steps ahead of me, long, blond hair flapping against her back. Sage was slung over her shoulder, sleeping soundly, cheeks bunched, tiny mouth a vermilion squiggle. Baxter held my hand without offering resistance. His pace had slowed and his eyelids fluttered, and when I lifted him into my arms he didn’t fight, and I felt his body go heavy against mine.

Cheryl walked faster. Lagging slightly behind allowed me to check out the estate. No buildings in sight, just greenery, and now the fountains’ ejaculations had drowned out the ocean. A few acres to the right the lawn sloped to a silver mirror: an unfenced, dark-bottomed swimming pool the size of a small lake. No birds. How did they keep them out?

No swimmers either. But for us and the glass cleaner, no humanity. The place had all the intimacy of a restricted resort, and I half-expected some officious sort to dart out from the shrubbery and check my membership card.

Cheryl turned onto a path, and we passed behind beds of tall, flowering pampas grass, hedges of variegated mock orange, a grove of two-story Hollywood junipers studded with blue-gray berries. The trees obscured the rest of the property, and I caught up with Cheryl. When her hip bumped mine a couple of times and I didn’t react, her jaw set and she surged ahead of me again. The junipers gave way to a planting of cattails, and I resumed sneaking peeks between the stalks.

Up ahead and to the right were high, peach-stucco walls. Black, angled court lights hinted at tennis, and a rubbery thump-thump said relaxed competition.

A sharp twist of the pathway revealed a building – a quarter mile up, at the terminus of a palm colonnade. More peach walls and an Italianate heap the size of the White House under a royal blue roof. The pathway forked, and Cheryl chose the route that took us away from the house, through an allee of orange trees. Several smaller buildings cropped up along the way – acres away, similarly colored, heavily plant-shrouded. Then a few people: women in navy blue uniforms sweeping the walkways. Stout, dark-haired women with bowed legs, dresses hanging below the knees. Norris and the parking lot dudes would be crushed.

We entered a dark, bamboo-lined cul-de-sac, walked five hundred feet, turned sharply east. At the end of the path stood a one-story house only twice the size of the average suburban dream. A trellis-topped front loggia was burdened by a mass of half-dead trumpet vine. More bamboo towered at the back. The same peach walls and cerulean roof. Up close, I saw that the stucco had been sponged to a mottled finish and lacquered glossy. The worn Mediterranean villa look, complete with artificial age scars at the corners, peeled back to reveal ersatz brickwork. Huge double doors of weathered walnut looked genuinely ancient, but any attempt to evoke the Aegean or le Cote d’Azur was killed by the roof tiles – some kind of space-age composite, too bright, too blue, cheesy enough to top a pizza.

“Here we are,” said Cheryl over her shoulder. “My place.”

“Nice.”

She tossed her hair. “It’s temporary. I used to have a place of my own, then… What’s the difference?” She hurried toward the double doors, yanked the handle. Resistance pitched her forward, and Sage’s head bobbled.

“Locked?” she said. “I left it open – shit, someone must’ve locked it.” Patting the pockets of the dress. “Shit, I didn’t take a key. Now I feel really stupid.”

“Hey, it happens.”

She faced me, and the blue-green eyes narrowed. “Are you always this nice?”

“Nope,” I said. “You caught me on a good day.”

“I’ll bet you have lots of good days,” she said, touching my pinkie with hers but making it sound like a character flaw. She licked her lips. Lovely California girl face. Fresh, healthy, unlined. Even the freckles were perfectly placed. Nature’s bounty, if you discounted the aggressive mammaries.

“Okay,” she said, “it looks like I’m going to have to go find someone to let me in. I can leave you with Baxter and take Sage – no, I guess you better come with me.”

“Sure,” I said.

She gave a soft, breathy laugh. “You have absolutely no idea where you are, do you – no idea who owns this place?”

“Someone with a good stockbroker, I’d say.”

She laughed. “That’s funny.” Her eyelids shuttered closed, then opened slowly. “Where exactly are you from, Alex?”

“As in the turnip truck?”

“Huh?”

“I’m from L.A., Cheryl.”

“Where, like the Valley?”

“West L.A.”

“Oh.” She thought about that. “Because the Valley can be a far place – sometimes people don’t know what’s going on over the hill.”

“So you’re saying this is some kind of famous place?” I shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Well…” She winked conspiratorially. “I bet you really do know – without knowing you know. Take a guess.”

“Okay,” I said. “Some kind of celebrity… a movie star. If you’re an actress, I’m sorry for not-”

“No, no.” She giggled. “I’ve acted, but that’s not it.”

“Someone rich and famous…”

“Now you’re getting warm-”

She looped her pinkie around mine, and I thought of how Robin had held my index finger as she slept.

“C’mon,” she said. “Guess.”

Then one of the double doors opened and she jumped back, as if slapped.

A couple stood in the opening.

The woman was tall, thin, slightly stooped, in her late thirties, with broad shoulders and long limbs. Square- jawed face, black, brooding eyes, mahogany hair tied back in a ponytail, too many worry lines for her age. Despite the wrinkles, a chapped slice of mouth, and the grainy vestiges of teenage acne on chin and cheeks, she was attractive in a forbidding way – some men would go nuts for the challenge.

She had on a slim-cut, burgundy pantsuit with black velvet shawl lapels and matching cuffs. Any curves she might’ve owned were concealed by the loose drape of the suit, but the gestalt was poised and feminine. No jewelry, lots of foundation masking the blemishes. No problem recognizing her: Anita Duke. Marc Anthony’s heir apparent and the new CEO of Duke Enterprises.

Ben Dugger’s younger sister. I searched for resemblance, saw nuances of shared chromosomes in the stoop and the sad eyes.

The man beside her was a few years younger – thirty-two or -three – and an inch shorter. He wore a cream