by David Chill
"Oh, it's all right," she said. "We live in Beverly Hills."
"A far cry from Mar Vista."
"Oh no, not really," she said. "It's still L.A. after all."
We sat down, poured some decaf and let Anna Faust begin to indoctrinate us into the curious world of being L.A. parents. Our conversations with other parents would invariably drift to the issue of schools, which ones we were looking at and where we were thinking of applying. There were apparently some finely honed strategies for getting kids into good schools, be they public or private. And Marcus had just turned three in January.
"You're a little behind," Anna observed, stirring some cream into her cup. "Most parents start the process when their child is two years old."
"The process?" I asked, my eyebrows starting to arch, and a small, throbbing pain beginning to take hold in the back of my head.
"Oh yes," she said. "There is most definitely a process for kids. It begins with the right preschool. You want a feeder school that can get your child admitted into a top elementary school. One that sends their students to the best high schools. Students from those high schools are the ones the elite colleges will give the most consideration. It's all about getting into the best college."
"Of course," I said weakly. How stupid of me to not know this.
"So," Gail said, her brow frowning. "You say we're behind in this ... process?"
"Unfortunately, yes," she said. "Many preschools have already begun admitting children at age two. They start with a few half-days a week. It's a transitional program. When they're three, they begin formal preschool every day."
My head really began to hurt now. I turned to Gail, who was focused and involved and seemingly happy enough to take the lead. Marcus sat in a corner, playing with a couple of toy Matchbox cars. Chewy yawned again and curled into a ball for a nap. I felt like going outside and shooting baskets at the hoop I had hung above the garage. That would not go over well with these women however, especially the one I woke up with every morning.
"So what are our options?" Gail asked.
"Well, it's a little difficult to be sure, but I think there will be some spots opening in the fall. There's always a few children that will leave, transfer to another preschool or move out of the area. Fortunately, I am well acquainted with a number of preschool directors. I'm sure I can steer you to the one that's right for your son. The fact that the City Attorney recommended you is a huge plus. I'm happy to help anyone Steve Reinhardt recommends."
"That's nice of you," I said, now clearly worrying how much this preferential treatment would cost us. Being a former police officer, I was accustomed to sensing there was a price for every favor and a hidden agenda behind every good deed. It was a skeptic's mindset, an occupational hazard I needed to navigate when mixing business with our personal life.
"My pleasure. I love helping young couples. May I ask what your occupations are?"
"I used to coach football at USC," I said, allowing a hint of pride to enter the timbre of my voice.
"Oh, how marvelous!" she exclaimed. "You're something of a celebrity then!"
"Minor celebrity," I said, the pride starting to wane as I thought of how to describe my current position. Telling her I was paid to investigate the private goings-on of senior executives, and sometimes engage in thug-like activities would not endear me to an exclusive pre-school, or most civilized human beings.
"And what are you doing now?" she asked.
"I own my own business," I managed, trying to puff out my chest. "It's something of a research agency."
"And," Gail said, sensing the need to jump in, "I'm a prosecutor. I'm sure you know I work in the City Attorney's office."
"Well," Anna said. "Two polished professionals. That's exactly what these preschools look for in parents. I don't see anything hindering your application."
At that point, Marcus grew bored of playing with his toy cars. He noticed Chewy snoozing away and decided it would be the ideal time to reach out and pull her tail. And before we could even sense what was happening, he walked over and gave it a good, hard tug. Chewy reacted with a shrieking bark, jumped up, and glared at him over the indignity of being violated. Thankfully, she didn't growl at him. Instead, she began to take a step or two backwards as she saw the shocked, wide-eyed look he gave her in return. I walked over, picked Marcus up, and carried him to the couch.
"Not a good thing to pull a dog's tail," I told him.
"Uh-huh," he said. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," I said and stroked his hair. "All part of the growing-up process. You're getting to be a bigger boy and curiosity is part of that."
"Curi ... huh?" he said.
"Curiosity," I repeated. "It means being interested in something new."
"Ah, yes," Gail said and turned to Anna. "Sorry about that. Kids do the darndest things."
Anna shrugged. "I've seen worse, believe me. But you two are quite involved parents. That's a good thing. Your son will be fine. Your dog, er, may need to find her own space."
"Hmmm," I observed, before deciding to pose the question that was often posed to me. "Do you mind if I ask what your fee is?"
"Of course not. I charge five hundred dollars an hour."
"I see," I managed, with as much of a smile as I could muster, one that would hopefully imply that this was a perfectly reasonable price that any normal working stiff would gladly fork over. While Anne probably didn't work an 8-hour day, her hourly rate was far more than what Gail and I made combined.
"Were you always in this field?" Gail asked.
"No, it began as a personal interest. I have three children. With public schools in L.A. being what they are, I started learning more about the private schools. After a while, I began giving advice to other parents. Pretty soon I was able to charge for it. And after a while I was making more money at this than in the career I studied for. And enjoying it a lot more, too."
"What did you do before this?" I asked.
"I used to head up Human Resources for a few local companies. The last one was Laputa, the internet site. I'm sure you've heard of it."
I nodded and tried to keep my jaw from dropping. In my mind I could see pieces of a jigsaw puzzle floating around. None seemed to fit together.
*
The next morning came early, like it always does for me. When I lived in my Santa Monica apartment, the downstairs neighbor, Ms. Linzmeier, often managed to wake me before 5:30 a.m. Now it was the planes taking off from nearby Santa Monica Airport that jolted me out of bed. Gail invariably slept as if the roar from the jets were nothing more than the soft whispers of a passing breeze. Lately there had been rumors the airport might be shuttered. If so, I'll probably need to finally buy myself an alarm clock.
I combed through the Internet and learned more about Eric Starr. He had grown up in the comfortable confines of Irvine, a planned community in Orange County, about 40 miles south of L.A. Graduated in three years from UC-Irvine, he started working at Hayes, a company that builds computers. Starr met Jack Beale there and the two of them formed Laputa, which quickly became successful. After Beale drowned, Starr gained full control of Laputa. The company continued to grow, and Eric was hailed as a business genius.
My search finished when Marcus woke up, and Gail followed soon afterward. I played with Marcus while Gail got ready for work, and as she hurried out the door, we agreed to talk more about preschools this weekend. Not a conversation I was looking forward to. I spent some time on the floor with Marcus, trying to teach him to play Go Fish. Ultimately we decided it was more fun to take the deck of cards and toss each one individually across the room, attempting to land them standing up, leaning against the wall. He was winning 3-2 in our game of Leaners when Carla arrived. This freed me up to go to work, but not before Marcus made me promise he would get the opportunity to beat me once again.
The drive down to Irvine took about 45 minutes, the traffic was remarkably clear. Most of the congestion was on the northbound side of the San Diego Free
way, as cars jockeyed to get up to West L.A. a minute or two quicker. As I arrived in Irvine, I searched for a Starbuck's, but all I found was an IHOP. I ordered a watery coffee to go and, winced with every sip. Sitting in my Pathfinder, I watched some local homemakers and retirees enter a Whole Foods across the street. The morning was bright, pretty and serene, and I was presented with a perfect picture of suburbia. Maybe near-perfect. I drank about half of my coffee before walking over to a trash bin to dump the remaining swill. In some neighborhoods, it would have been perfectly fine to pour the contents onto the asphalt parking lot. Here in Irvine, such a demonstration might be tantamount to intentionally staining someone's living room carpet.
I drove up Ridgeline Drive and found the street on which Eric Starr grew up, where his parents still lived. This was in the upscale Turtle Rock section of Irvine, lined with one beautiful home after another. Irvine was a city of carefully detailed neighborhoods, designed by urban planners who wanted to create a world in which every home looked perfect. And looked the same. The street names were called Moonrise, Moonlight, Moonshine, Moonbeam and a few others that appeared to be specifically designed to confuse visitors. There were no front yards, no cars parked in driveways, everything was neat and orderly. Only the approved colors of the houses differed, although the pale blue, pale gray and pale beige were, I decided, not exceptionally different from one another. They were just pale.
The first doors I knocked on bore little fruit. Some owners were not at home, some had moved in well after Eric Starr had moved out. But mostly, the people I met just didn't want to talk. The person next door to Starr's parents said he had lived there for two years and had not even met Cindy and Benjamin Starr, much less Eric. Finally, I struck pay dirt. The woman across the street had been well-acquainted with the Starr family for years. And she was all too willing to speak about them.
"They're something else," said Margaret Walsh, a 60-ish, bird-boned woman wearing a green flowing skirt, her reddish hair piled into a bun that sat atop her head.
"How so?" I asked.
"That family's the perfect American success story. Until you pull back the covers and take a look under the hood."
I decided not to shine a spotlight on the mixed metaphors. "Really," I said conversationally.
"Oh, yes. The father goes off traveling for weeks on end. Comes back periodically, at odd times of the day and night. I think he even might be home right now if you want to talk to him. But he's usually flying around the world, making a ton of money. He has to, his trophy wife spends it non-stop."
"Did you know Eric?"
"Sure. Quite the meteoric rise. Well, with an absentee dad and an self-obsessed mom, how could he not be?" she remarked caustically. "Hey, the kid was very bright, I'll give him that. Near-genius IQ, to hear some people tell it. My son was in the same year as him in school, that's how we know. But Eric only worked hard when he wanted to. Got A's in some classes and D's in others. Probably could have gone to Harvard if he applied himself. I hear his father had to pull some strings to even enroll him at UC-Irvine. Just down the road."
"Got him his first job too, I hear."
"Sure. At Hayes. No one else would hire him. Isn't that ironic? The boy who can't find a job working for anyone except his father winds up launching an empire."
"What kind of a kid was he?" I asked. "Growing up."
"Not the kind I'd want my kids hanging around. Nasty, selfish, unforgiving. Quite the partier, too. You could smell the pot smoke coming out of their hot tub at night. Our youngest went over there a few times. Fortunately they didn't hit it off."
"Did the Starrs have any other kids?"
"One. Younger son, Lanny. Still lives at home. Dad got him into UC-Irvine too, but he flunked out. Eric got him a job up at Laputa when he was launching it. But he fired Lanny after a while."
"Fired his own brother?"
"Yeah," she cackled. "Can you believe that? Tells you all you need to know about Eric. Now the youngest just sits on the couch playing video games. What a waste."
"Can you tell me more about the dad?"
Margaret hesitated and looked behind me. "Maybe you should ask him yourself. Here he comes."
Benjamin Starr was a short, stubby man with a wide face and a big nose. He had jet black hair that looked like it had recently been colored, not a silver thread was visible. He walked with purpose and strode right up to us. He didn't look very happy.
"Mrs. Walsh," he nodded and then turned angrily to me. "Sir, may I ask what you think you're doing?"
"You can ask, but I don't have to tell you."
Starr looked like I had slapped him in the face with a fish. Obviously he wasn't used to being treated in a way that wasn't deferential.
"You have a lot of nerve going around this street, poking into my family's business."
"How do you know what I'm doing?" I asked. "Mrs. Walsh and I are just talking about the Anteaters."
"The what?"
"Anteaters," I repeated. "That's the nickname for UC-Irvine. Their basketball team's having a good year, they even made it into the NCAA tournament. I'm surprised you didn't know that, you being such a big supporter of the local college and all."
"I have better things to do. Now why don't you get the hell out of here."
"Why don't you try to make me."
Benjamin Starr stared at me incomprehensibly, then reached into his pocket, turned his back to me and began fiddling with his phone. He looked back one more time to offer a nasty glare, and then walked over to the sidewalk.
"Touchy fellow," I said. And then, not more than 30 seconds later, we heard the screeching of tires coming around the corner. A white patrol car with "Orange Security" on the door roared up and jerked to a stop in front of Margaret Walsh's house. The driver parked on the wrong side of the street. A khaki-clad uniformed officer got out of the cruiser, spoke with Starr for a moment, and then approached me.
"Please state your business, sir," he demanded, his voice crisp and confident.
"You know, they have street sweeping here today. You might want to move your vehicle. I'd hate for it to get towed. I might even have to call it in myself."
"Let me worry about that, smart guy. Again, state your business."
"I'm having a chat with one of my oldest and dearest friends," I said and turned to Mrs. Walsh. "Isn't that right, Margaret?"
Margaret Walsh laughed. "Sure," she said. "My old pal. What was your name again?"
The officer gave me a terse look. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave the premises, sir."
I turned back to Margaret. "You wouldn't back up my story? For shame."
She shrugged. "You seem like a decent guy. But I have to know you a little better before I can lie for you."
"Understood," I sighed, recognizing there were things about the suburbs I would need to learn. I turned back to the security guard. "Sorry. I'm not ready to leave yet. Free country and all that. You know."
"I'm not going to ask you again, sir," he warned me.
"Well that's a relief."
"You're asking for trouble."
"Won't be the first time," I sighed. "I suppose I should ask what you're going to do if I don't leave voluntarily. Or pleasantly."
The security officer reached over with his right hand and pointed to a can of pepper spray strapped to his belt. "That enough motivation for you to take off, smart guy?"
"You always carry your deodorant around with you?"
Jerking the can out of the holster with his right hand, he quickly reached over with his left to remove the safety latch. Using pepper spray in this type of situation was wholly unwarranted, but that wouldn't stop my eyes from stinging badly for the next few hours. In the end, the security guard might just get a rebuke for being overzealous. I didn't have a lot of time to think, but letting him spray me was not in my best interests. I reared back and hit him with a left hook between the eyes, and he stumbled and fell onto the lawn. Still holding the can of pepper spray, he went back to struggl
ing to remove the safety.
I took two quick steps and kicked his right hand. The can dropped onto the grass, and after grimacing in pain for a second, he went to grab it yet again, this time with his left hand. Some people just didn't know when to cut their losses. I finally reached down and yanked it out of his hand.
"I'm calling 911," he yelped, in a voice that was now more whine than swagger.
I stared at him in disbelief. "Do I have to beat your phone out of you, too?"
He began to reach into his jacket pocket, so I reached into mine first. I assumed he'd grab his phone, but you never know when someone is armed with a lethal weapon. I drew my .38 and pointed it at him.
"Keep those hands where I can see them," I growled. "Take your hand out of your jacket. And I mean now. Do it."
He slowly removed his hand and eyed me. "You're in a lot of trouble, mister. You don't know what you've just done."
"Sure I do. I engaged in self-defense with an amateur thug wearing a stupid uniform."
He looked at me nervously, and it seemed like the gears inside his brain were working overtime. It felt like he was trying to decide what he should do next, and whether it was worth getting shot over a few nasty words. I solved the problem for him by reaching into his pocket and taking his phone.
Walking over to Margaret, I kept one eye on the guard as I handed her a business card. "Mrs. Walsh, give me a call if you think of anything else. Anything at all."
She stared at me in awe. "All right," she said, with quite a bit of hesitation in her voice. "Talking by phone might be a better idea. All things considered."
My gun was pointed down at the ground as I walked past the security officer. His body was frozen in place on the lawn, but he watched me carefully. Benjamin Starr watched me carefully as well. I glanced at Starr and pointed a finger at him.
"My business here isn't finished," I said.
"It is as far as I'm concerned," Starr responded, his voice a little shaky despite the bluster of his words.
"Your concerns don't interest me," I said, shaking my head as I walked to my Pathfinder. Jumping in quickly, I turned over the engine and pulled onto the street. As I sped from the scene, I threw the guard's pepper spray and cell phone out of the window and onto the sidewalk.
