“Duke,” I said. “Not the magazine?”
“Yes, the magazine, bro. Among other things.”
I smiled. “Then how about a free subscription?”
“Hey, there’s an idea.” He slapped my back, drew his head back, and looked into the sun. Edging closer. Crowding me. “Give my office a call, we’ll send you a coupla years’ worth.”
I said, “I can see why you wouldn’t want me talking to anyone.”
“Can you?” Harder slap. “Well, there you go. And I know you’ll show some class. Not showing class would make a lot of people very unhappy, and you don’t look like the kind of guy who wants to spread unhappiness.”
“God forbid.”
“God doesn’t always forbid it,” he said. “Sometimes we have to look out for ourselves.”
He held the gate open, waited until I’d walked to the cable car and boarded, then produced a remote-control unit of his own. Big smile and a thumb flick and I was descending.
He waved bye-bye. I waved back, but I was staring over his shoulder, a hundred feet beyond, by one of the rock ponds, where a man in tennis whites stood and tossed something to the flamingos.
Thick torso, bulky shoulders, a cap of cropped black hair.
Black Suit, now in tennis whites. Drawing back his arm, he pitched to the birds. Scratched his head. Watched them eat.
Kent Irving kept his eye on me as I sank out of view.
CHAPTER 29
WHEN I GOT back to the broken pier, Norris was sitting in the sand, legs yogi-crossed, smoking a joint. As I dragged the kayak to shore, he got up reluctantly and looked at his bare wrist. “Hey, right on time. Any wildlife?” He offered me the j.
“No thanks. Just birds. The feathered kind.”
“Oh well,” he said, toking deeply. “Listen, any time you wanna take a ride, let me know. Keep bringing cash and I’ll keep giving you a discount.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Yeah… good idea.”
“What is?”
“Bearing shit in your mind and not somewhere else.” Rocking on his knees, he settled, sucked hungrily on the cannabis, stared out at the darkening ocean.
I drove up from the cove to the coast highway, turned right, and parked on the beach-side shoulder, with a hundred-yard view of the entrance to the Duke estate. One more hour – what could it hurt?
I ran the tape deck as I slumped in the front seat. Old recording of Oscar Aleman riffing on a shiny silver National guitar in some thirties Buenos Aires nightclub. Aleman and the band peeling off a ha-ha rendition of “Besame Mucho” that would have done Spike Jones proud, but no mistaking the artistry.
Seven songs later the copper tentacles spread and a gardener’s truck emerged, hooked a left, and sped by. Then nothing, as the rest of the album played out. I inserted another cassette – the L.A. Guitar Quartet – listened to one complete side, and was about to pack it in when the gates swung back again and a black Expedition shot out and barreled south on PCH.
Silver-gray trim along the bottom of the door panels, oversized tires, chrome running boards, windows tinted nearly black. Cheryl’s car, as described by Norris, but no way to tell if she was behind the wheel. I followed from a safe distance. The Expedition’s brake lights never flashed, not even around sharp curves, and it paid no homage to the speed limit.
The former Mrs. Duke in her usual hurry? She hadn’t displayed any signs of impatience down on the beach, or up at the estate. Why was she still
Under the thumb of the Duke family? Some sort of custody issue? Kent Irving had alluded to her poor maternal skills, and Baxter’s near drowning backed that up. Perhaps the Duke clan was pressuring her to give up the kids, had negotiated her staying close.
Were the kids with her right now? The Expedition’s black windows made it impossible to know.
I stayed with her past Pepperdine University, maintained the tail as the SUV turned off on Cross Creek, bypassed the fast-food joints and the newer businesses fronting the shopping center, and entered the Malibu Country Mart. The vintage stores were a series of low-rise wooden buildings arranged around U-shaped parking lots and topped by hunter green banners. Nice view of the Malibu hills and land-side homes in the distance.
Not too many vehicles at this time of day, and I waited until the Expedition found its spot – hogging two spaces opposite Dream Babies Fragrance and Candle Boutique. I parked the Seville as far away as I could. Near the Dumpsters – a pattern seemed to be forming.
Cheryl Duke climbed out of the SUV, slammed the door, and headed for the candle shop. Alone, no kids. She’d changed into a red silk tank top that exposed a band of flat, ivory belly, pipe-stem white jeans, and white sandals with high heels. Her hair was pinned up loosely, and big, white-framed sunglasses blocked the top half of her face. Even at this distance the bottom half seemed grim.
She threw back the Dream Babies screen door and entered, and I sat there checking out the neighboring establishments. More “shoppes” than shops, bikinis and gym wear, nostrums to sooth the skin and the ego, souvenirs and tourist art, a couple of cafes on opposite ends of the U.
The eatery farthest from the candle shop advertised coffee and sandwiches and provided two flimsy outdoor tables. I took the long way over to avoid being spotted, bought a bagel and a cup of Kenyan roast from a sickly- looking kid with a blue goatee and a Popeye tattoo on the side of his neck. Someone had left a folded
Ten minutes later Cheryl Duke exited toting a pair of shopping bags. She hooked immediately into Brynna’s Bikinis, spent another quarter hour inside, and I made my way through the acrosses before being stymied by a five- letter word for “old fiddle.” She reemerged with an additional bag, dipped into Bolivian Shawl and Snuggle for thirteen minutes, and when she left that store she was toting three more sacks but looking no happier.
Heading my way.
I lowered my head, filled in a few more blanks, came up with “rebec” for the fiddle, because it was the only thing that made sense. Just as I’d wrinkled my brow over a three-letter clue for “Catullus composition” I heard her say, “Alex?”
I looked up, feigned surprise, saw my twin reflections in her sunshades.
Smiling. Surprised. Mr. Innocent.
“Hey,” I said. “Know a six-letter word for ‘Indian pony’? Starts with
She laughed. “No, I don’t think so – I can’t do that stuff. This is weird, seeing you again. Do you come here a lot?”
“When I’m in Malibu. How about you?”
“Sometimes.”
“We probably passed each other without knowing it.”
“Probably,” she said.
“Doing some heavy shopping?”
She placed the bags on the ground. “No, just… It’s just something to do – maybe it’s like karma or something.
