“You’ll break your golf coach’s heart when you make junior varsity.”
“You haven’t seen me when there’s a hand in my face. I can’t shoot for shit.” Harry tossed the ball to Jess.
“You talk like that around Mom and Dad?”
Harry cracked a smile. “What do you think?”
“That you wouldn’t be able to sit down if you did.” Jess tried a twenty-footer. It clanged off the rim and Harry caught the rebound.
“I let down my guard around Mom once and she washed my mouth out with soap.” Harry tried the same shot that Jess missed. It swished through the net. He grabbed the rebound and threw the ball back to Jess.
“H.”
“I get a chance to make it first,” said Jess.
“You won’t.”
Harry was proved right when Jess’s attempt banked off the rim again. He tapped the ball back to his little brother, more than happy to get involved in a spontaneous game of H-O-R-S-E.
“Talbot still coaching the team?” asked Jess.
“He died three years ago. I went to the funeral with Mom and Dad.” Harry threw in a reverse no-look layup. Swish again. “Now we have to go to his.”
Jess replicated the shot perfectly. “Yeah,” he grunted.
Harry looked for a place to attempt his next shot. “You sticking around for it?”
“Of course.”
Harry didn’t betray a reaction to this. But Jess surmised from the confident way his brother made his next shot that he was happy about it. Jess’s try from the same spot was an air ball.
“O,” Harry said gleefully.
Jess was happy to see his brother smile. He imagined it was a rare thing these days. Jess remembered being Harry’s age in the Stark mansion and the paucity of happy times that came with being under Walter Stark’s thumb.
“So how’s it been being back home?” asked Jess.
“The same. Sarah’s a pain in the ass. Always arguing with Mom—mostly about money. Mom’s overly protective but could be a whole lot worse. She could be like Dad.” This time Harry missed an easy shot, a ten-footer that didn’t draw iron. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Me either,” said Jess. He tried a free-throw and was surprised when it went right through the center of the net. Harry rebounded the ball, tried a free-throw and made it. Jess grabbed the ball and moved to the corner.
“What happened between you and Dad before you left?” Harry asked.
Jess missed the shot by a mile.
“Play fair,” Jess said.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“Someday maybe. Not now.”
Harry realized he could jinx shots all night for Jess and wouldn’t get an answer. “Maybe if I come and crash on your couch up in LA?”
“Yeah. Maybe then.” Jess retrieved the ball, dribbled it a couple of times, and handed it back to Harry. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. So. What is it?”
“H-O. You’re a Ho.”
“Funny kid.”
Jess lost, with Harry only getting an “H” for himself. Then they played P-I-G. Jess found a rhythm and shut Harry out. Another game of H-O-R-S-E followed. Harry won that. They played different words—like “S-U-C-K-S” and “B-I-T-E M-E.” Each won his fair share.
They played until the sun went down and couldn’t see anymore.
Then, they played a little longer, knowing that nothing good waited for them inside.
11
Over the years, Jess had watched his fair share of funerals for heads of state on television. Inevitably, in the days before the actual service, news anchors would plant themselves outside the deceased’s home or church where the funeral was going to take place and watch the mourner’s parade come and go. Walter Stark might not have ruled a country, but the turnout at the mansion was indicative of the influence Jess’s father had on the city of Palm Springs.
The stream of visitors started out slowly. Couples his parents occasionally dined with; old family friends whose kids Jess romped with after grade school. Some of those playmates were now working men and women. Jess had lost touch with most of them way before he headed to Los Angeles. They were nothing more than perfect strangers offering condolences.
Kate stayed on the living room couch, receiving guests one by one. They sat or knelt beside her for maybe five minutes before Edward Rice gently urged them aside and brought the next one forward. Jess grew increasingly irritated at how easily Rice stepped into the host role. He wasn’t sure what bothered him more, Rice walking around the house like he owned it or his mother letting him do so.
Jess helped Lena pass out hors d’oeuvres while the guests depleted his parents’ liquor supply. He asked her how many of the mourners she’d met before. Lena said she barely knew a third. She guessed a good number were employees from Walter’s various businesses. Jess thought there were probably a bunch of curiosity seekers as well, and Lena didn’t disagree.
By eight o’clock, it was standing room only. Lena had to call the local deli for reinforcements. Jess was having difficulty trying to find a corner where he wouldn’t have to put on a funereal face.
Kate insisted on introducing him to a few distant relatives. He couldn’t sort out a third cousin from somebody’s aunt, so he accepted their sympathies and feigned interest. Jess was trying to escape a close-talking uncle-by-marriage when he bumped into a handsome Latino man. The drink Jess was carrying spilled onto the man’s three-thousand-dollar suit.
“Damn it. I’m sorry,” said Jess.
“No trouble at all. It was overdue for a cleaning anyway.” The man’s English was flawless and his Spanish accent exuded sophistication. Jess was surprised when Kate actually rose off the couch to introduce the man.
“Jess, this is Jaime Solis. He was a close friend and business associate of your father’s.”
Solis’s eyes lit up. “Ah, Walter’s son. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“If it was from my father, I doubt much is worth repeating.”
Solis just laughed and dabbed at the wet spot on his jacket with a cocktail napkin. He was in his mid-forties. He looked born into his designer suit. His bronze skin glowed off his gold and blue tie and he held out a perfectly manicured hand to Jess. “I’m terribly sorry about Walter. These past few months had been so difficult for him.”
“Thank you. How did you meet my father?”
“A mutual friend introduced us,” Solis said. “Walter and I shared a lot of the same interests and I ended up offering him a few business opportunities. He reciprocated by inviting me to invest in a couple of medical clinics with him.”
Solis said he had been spending more time in the desert the past few years and recently bought a house down the road.
“Along with the country club,” Kate pointed out.
“You must have really wanted to get a good tee time,” Jess said.
“I don’t even play. But the chef is exquisite and the view from the dining room is to die for. You’ll have to be my guest.”
Jess told Solis if he stayed in town long enough he’d take him up on the offer and would try to keep his drink in his glass. He apologized again. Solis waved it off and sat down between Kate and Rice. Jess turned toward the front door just in time to see Sheriff Thaddeus Burke arrive.
He crossed the room to intercept the lawman. Burke was out of uniform. He wore a suit that hadn’t been pressed in ages—it probably only got trotted out on rare occasions. “What’s this crap about saying my dad died from natural causes?”
“This isn’t a business call, Mr. Stark.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t ask the question, Sheriff. You saw his body. Did that look like a man who suffered a heart attack?”
“I can only go by what the M.E. tells me. She’s got the medical degree and fancy equipment. I’m just here to pay a condolence call.”
Burke’s smug face got Jess’s skin crawling. “Maybe you ought to consider it paid and go back to doing your job.”
&nbs
p; “I saw your father a lot more than you did the last few years. I’d say that gives me as much right to be here as you.” This truth caught Jess off guard and he reluctantly allowed Burke to slip past.
The evening continued to go downhill from there. Jess was particularly disappointed by Sarah’s actions. Her voice got louder and her laughter more frequent with each drink. He couldn’t even hang with Harry. His brother got corralled by their mother and was stationed on the couch like one of the von Trapp children. But instead of obediently singing “So Long, Farewell” and sent to bed after one performance, Harry had to endure encore after encore of condolences and variations of, “It’ll-get-better-I-promise.”
The final straw was the arrival of Clark James. Jess suspected it was commonplace for the actor to take over a room upon arrival. But he found it particularly nauseating that his father’s “best friend” wouldn’t even try tempering the attention-getting. James took a seat beside Kate and within minutes it was the thespian holding court, not the grieving widow. Jess decided it was time to leave the living room.
He walked down the long corridor toward the back of the house. The hallway walls were lined with more Stark memorabilia. There were pictures of Walter playing golf with dignitaries, shaking hands with governors and senators, dedicating desert museums, hospitals, and retirement homes. Again, the most glaring omission was family pictures. Like the living room, the trek down the carpet toward Walter’s office was intended for the visitor to know whose turf they were traversing.
Jess hesitated outside heavy oak wood doors. He thought he heard whispers coming from inside. Jess knocked on the door. The whispering stopped. He turned the knob and entered his father’s inner sanctum. Of course, it was empty. The acoustics in the house must have been playing tricks on his ears or he was imagining things from yesteryear.
The office was from the era preceding the man cave. It wasn’t tricked out with every electrical device known to humankind. The computer was puny and at least five years old. Walter didn’t even have a wireless router. But the room still oozed power and success. Two deep leather chairs sat by the fireplace where late night brandies had been imbibed while business was discussed. The desk was an antique from which Walter ruled the desert. Jess settled into the chair where deals were brokered and broken.
He had just opened the top drawer when Tracy stepped into the room.
“It’s strange to see you sitting there instead of him.”
He automatically eased the drawer shut, feeling like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. And by her, of all people.
“I didn’t know you were here.”
“I came with Dad. He sort of sucks up the air in a room.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Tracy grinned. “I saw you duck out of the living room. I thought I’d follow. I didn’t need to stick around and watch him entertain the troops.”
“His specialty,” Jess said.
Tracy walked across the office. She took in the surroundings. Jess could see being in Walter Stark’s private office was having a similar effect on her. “This is sorta strange.”
“On so many levels,” agreed Jess.
He watched as Tracy started to settle down in the chair across the desk, but then changed her mind. It felt way too formal for the two of them. Whatever their present was, Jess and Tracy’s history begged for something more intimate. She moved to the edge of the desk and leaned against it. Being that close made him think of Dr. Clifford’s biofeedback machine—the arrow would have been rapidly approaching the Danger Zone.
“I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to get in the middle of an argument,” she said.
“It wasn’t your fault. My dad started it. As usual.”
Tracy looked around the room and repressed a chill. Jess could tell they were feeling the same thing. It was as if they were walking over the dead man’s grave. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Tracy said. “I knew he’d been sick but last night he seemed like his old self, willful and belligerent as always. I would’ve bet he was going to outlast us all.”
Jess didn’t disagree. “What happened after I left your house last night?”
“You mean after I called your father a bastard?”
He chuckled. “I managed to catch that.”
“I still feel awful. It’s the last thing I ever said to him.”
“What did you do after that?”
“I went inside. Kept my distance.” She thought back. “I think I saw him talking to your mom for a little while. Maybe with my father too. I ended going upstairs to bed shortly after. The whole thing was just too upsetting.”
Tracy was near enough for Jess to feel her breath. Once upon a time Jess had lived for that, but the ensuing years of pain and trying to forget her had changed things. So, even though she was now only inches away, those feelings were just something from days gone by.
Or so he hoped.
“It’s pretty bad that it took your father dying to let us see each other again.”
“It certainly wasn’t the way I imagined it.”
“And how was that?” she asked softly.
Jess decided that was a slippery slope and flipped through the papers on the desk instead. He wasn’t really looking at anything in particular, just as long as it wasn’t Tracy’s eyes. He knew he could get lost in them. No way was he letting that happen again.
“I know you hated him, Jess. There wasn’t a whole lot to love, that’s for sure. But he was still your father. I can’t tell you how bad I feel about everything that has happened.”
He continued to shuffle his father’s papers. Tracy took hold of his fingers and made him stop. Jess hoped his palm wouldn’t begin to sweat.
“I had no way of getting in touch with you. No one knew where you went.”
“I made sure of that.”
Tracy’s eyes welled with tears. She let go of Jess’s hand to wipe them clear. His palm was still dry. Thank God for small favors.
“Are you going to hate me forever, Jess?”
“I could never hate you, Tracy. I just don’t think things can go back to the way they were.”
Tracy forced a smile. “You left an opening there.”
But Jess didn’t answer. He had come across a notepad under some manila files and noticed the letterhead on it.
The Oasis Bar and Lounge.
“Jess?”
“One sec.” For a moment he couldn’t remember where he’d seen that name—so much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. He knew the Oasis was the bar off Ironwood.
Suddenly, he remembered.
The dead man on Highway 111 had worked there.
Jess ripped the sheet off the notepad and stood up. “Sorry. I gotta go.”
“What?” Tracy looked confused.
“Do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“Tell my mother I’ll call her in a bit. I don’t think I can face that crowd of hangers-on in there.”
He went out the office French doors before Tracy could respond.
The office doors led directly to the cactus garden out back. Jess figured he could swing around to the gate leading to the side yard. That way he could bypass the multitude of mourners inside, extract his SUV from the driveway, and head off without making excuses.
He passed the greenhouse on his way to the gate. Jess heard some giggling. The greenhouse door cracked open and Sarah stepped out. The first thing she spotted was Jess.
“Oh. Jess. What are you doing out here?”
Jess was about to ask the same thing but his sister was already trying to beat a hasty retreat back inside the greenhouse. But someone was behind her and she almost crashed into him.
Edward Rice.
Jess’s first reaction was distaste, then disappointment. He finally landed on the idea that they deserved each other.
Sarah looked embarrassed and angry. “It’s not what you think.”
“Since when did you care what I think?”
Jess cut him dead with a look. “You two enjoy yourselves.”
He left them standing there, wondering what he was going to do with this newfound discovery. They probably would’ve been thrilled to know he was less interested in them than the notepad he found on his father’s desk.
Two minutes later he was back on the road.
12
Palm Springs was definitely not a nightlife Mecca. It had its share of clubs and even a teensy red-light district, but it wasn’t South Beach by a mile, or even a block of the Sunset Strip. They didn’t exactly fold up the sidewalks on Palm Canyon at night but foot traffic was minimal, window-shopping nonexistent, and most restaurants could barely fill one seating, and never two. Tourists came to the desert to bask in the sunshine, have an early dinner with a few cocktails, go to bed early, wake up the next day, and start the process all over again.
So, when Jess came down the hill from the mansion, it was smooth sailing through the heart of town. He made it to the Ironwood turnoff in less than ten minutes and hung a left. A hundred yards down the road he swung into the Oasis’s parking lot. The neon sign was a palm tree with alternating blinking red words on the fronds: “Cocktails,” “Food,” “Sports TV.”
There were a half dozen cars spread through a lot that could handle twenty times the amount. Jess took a spot near the entrance of a ramshackle building that last got a facelift during the Eisenhower administration.
As he approached the front door, Jess thought about what he hoped to accomplish inside. He was well aware that he had walked out on the Stark family’s version of a wake in a desert palace to question strangers in a gone-to-shit bar. Some might find that a peculiar choice, but Jess was looking for any excuse to get out of there. Plus, he had always been intrigued by things that didn’t add up—and his father’s death certainly fit the bill.
But Jess knew it was more than that. He couldn’t stop thinking of the terror in Walter’s eyes when he told Jess someone was trying to kill him. Finding a message pad on his father’s desk from the same bar where another frightened dead man had worked further activated Jess’s shit detector. The irony that he was doing this on behalf of a man he’d spent most of his life hating wasn’t lost on him.
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