“We’re concerned for you,” said Liz. “We don’t unanimously approve of the behavior of your current client. And the bad luck she has brought you.”
“We don’t unanimously disapprove of her, either,” said Dick.
Liz: “Of course not. We’re individuals. There are dissenting opinions about her, but the general drift is that you should be careful of deepening your involvement with this woman, beyond the PI-client relationship.”
A moment of silence, during which I glanced at my phone and lifted my drink. “To you, my friends,” I said. “The Irregulars.”
Followed by a careful raising of martini glasses by everyone.
I noted that Violet, usually a temperate drinker, was at least one drink ahead of the rest of us at this early point in the evening. And that she seemed more subdued than usual. Maybe just tired. She had run around the pond for nearly two hours today. I’d seen her from my upstairs office window, while taking brief breaks between my virtual tour of Reggie Atlas’s House of Fallen Angels and the wasp-cam action from Paradise Date Farm, and my conversations with Burt and Mike Lark.
“Penelope is an attractive young woman,” said Liz. “She’s had a hard life. But she’s plainly out to claim you. And her aggression reveals neediness.”
“Or just knowing what she wants,” said Dick. “Liz would be the first to stipulate that she’s hard on her own gender.”
“Discerning,” she answered.
“Well,” said Violet, “I mostly agree with Liz about Penelope. She’s obviously interested in you. Beyond just hiring you.”
Dick: “First of all, women often unionize against other women they don’t like. So I think Roland will benefit from a male perspective. I for one think that Penelope is lovely, generous, spirited, and quite a catch for you, Grandson.”
Liz: “A catch?”
“I’m not hearing wedding bells,” said her husband. “Just some loud and low-down rock-and-roll.”
“You used that line on me fifty-something years ago.”
Dick grinned at her over the top of his martini glass as he took another sip.
“I very respectfully disagree with Liz on one big point, though,” said Violet. “I don’t blame Penelope for your bad luck. In you getting beat up like that. Luck is an invisible hole into which anyone can fall, and it can be good or bad. You don’t make your own luck, and other people don’t bring it to you. You fall in.”
“Es verdad,” said Frank.
Triunfo gazed up at his new master, clubbing his tail against the flagstone. He looked like a Lab cut with a German shepherd, well proportioned and strong. Brown eyes in a black, serious face. Tan brows.
Frank leaned down and petted him, apparently done with his opening statement.
Burt: “We could give Roland enough credit to make up his own mind about her. Last I checked, he was all grown up.”
“Of course we will,” said Liz. “I just want to be sure that he can see things from a different point of view.”
“More talk from the women’s Local 666,” said Dick. “Really, what don’t you like about Penelope besides she’s pretty, gets things done, and is half bonkers over my grandson?”
“I know a liar when I hear one,” said Liz. “For starters, her husband being a fighter pilot out at Miramar? It didn’t ring one bit true, all her Top Gun this and Tom Cruise that. Everybody knows the Top Gun school was moved to Florida, anyway. It took Roland a little longer than it took me, but he saw through that one. The night she barged in here, showed us those pictures of her sister? Before Roland and Burt came home? Well, nobody shows a picture of their little sister. They show you a picture of their kids or grandkids. Maybe their dog. It was her own daughter, even just by the looks of her. Roland and I had a talk after his night away from home, and he indicated some doubt as to whether he was searching for a sister or a daughter. Correct, Roland?”
I nodded.
“The girl has run away!” said Dick. “What’s it matter if she’s Penelope’s sister or daughter?”
“What matters are her blithe evasions of truth,” said Liz.
Then Frank: “I like Penelope.”
“Jeez,” said Liz. “Talk about a union.”
She quaffed her drink and reached for the pitcher but Frank beat her to it, poured her a fresh martini, and cast her a questioning look.
“She’s a lovely person,” said Dick.
“She’s full of shit,” said Grandma. “Don’t let her touch you again, Roland.”
“Let her touch you, Roland. It’s time. She’s like Justine in some ways.”
“She’s not fit to lick Justine’s parakeet dish,” said Liz.
“Justine had a parakeet?”
Liz: “God.”
“And what exactly is a parakeet dish?”
Violet lurched up and excused herself to go boil the ravioli. She swayed some on the way to her casita, looking back over her shoulder before going inside. Liz marched off to get the salad. Dick gave me a “What’s gotten into them?” shrug and headed to roast the vegetables he invariably burned. Burt and Frank set the table and Triunfo trotted off toward the pond.
I sat and wondered what Penelope Rideout was doing just now. If her ears were on fire. And if so, what she would make of this Judgment of the Irregulars. I thought she’d have some zesty words for them. More darkly, I wondered where Daley was, and who was holding the keys to her cell.
* * *
—
DINNER WAS VERY good. Violet’s pasta was stuffed with portobello mushrooms, pork, or duck; Dick’s vegetables were just black enough; Liz’s salad was her usual bounty, with extra beets because she knows I like them.
The conversation turned lighter when Violet animatedly told about sometimes having the same dreams as her younger sister, on the same night at approximately the same time, which led her to speculate that dreams—like luck—were simply invisible things that you fell into. So why couldn’t two people fall into the same dream at the same time, especially if they were sleeping in the same room?
Frank had good news—he’d landed another weekly landscape job in Fallbrook, for a total of three days a week in addition to the three he was working here on Rancho de los Robles. “No more Saturdays I will be sleeping late,” he said. He had purchased an “almost new” bicycle to get to work. Bikes are a tough way to get around in these parts. Fallbrook is a sprawling little town, lots of hills to climb and some fast traffic to negotiate.
You could see Frank and his Central American brethren from El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras—mornings just before seven and afternoons just after three—pedaling to and from their labors. They were compact men, sometimes just boys, always wearing long pants and work boots—never athletic shoes—and always long-sleeved shirts, absolutely tucked in, their belts wide and their faces dark in the shade of their hats. Frank told us, as he had before, that his wages were for his return to Salvador to avenge the death of his father, and to save his family from the violence of the MS-13 gangsters who terrorized the entire village.
He said all this with a pleasantly matter-of-fact expression. Frank seems to be both guileless and fearless. I wonder what good can come of his small-arms combat training with Burt. I’ve heard them talking about flights to El Salvador, the physical layout of the village of Puerto el Triunfo—Frank’s hometown—and how easy it is to buy quality weapons in El Salvador. Thanks in part to the United States military and CIA involvement there in the 1980s. Thousands of weapons left over from the post-Somoza days, many of which had found their way into the hands of the Mara Salvatrucha—MS-13. It was hard to reconcile Frank’s plans for bloody revenge with the bright-eyed innocence of his eighteen-year-old’s face. I wish I could tell him that a young refugee from American violence, willing to work six days a week and stay out of trouble, might find his way into a legal stay in this country. But the chances of that are sma
ll and, at last check, getting smaller.
“Back to the matter at hand,” said Liz. “We’re all just hoping you’ll look before you leap with this Penelope woman.”
“I’d leap,” said Dick.
“You dismay me, honey.”
“Can I say something?” asked Violet. Which struck me as funny, because Violet was always talking anyway. However, she paused to take another drink from her martini, and Frank couldn’t resist.
“Penelope is muy bonita,” he said with a boyish grin.
Violet: “What I’d like to say is—”
“Roland still hasn’t gotten his heart back from Justine!” Dick boomed. “And it’s time, Roland. More than time. It’s okay, Grandson. Justine has already forgiven you for moving on. Mark my words.”
“How far will you go to miss a point?” Liz said. “Roland can’t simply surrender to a low-quality person because she catches his eye! He can’t build a future with a manipulating liar. And, Frank? You should learn that men are not crows. You can’t have every shiny little thing you see.”
He smiled uncertainly at her. Triunfo returned from the pond, dripping and pleased.
Violet downed her drink and poured another.
Burt stood. “I want to thank you all for this wonderful evening.”
“It was nice, wasn’t it?” asked Liz.
“Roland,” said Burt, lifting his glass to me, “you’ll do the right thing with regard to Ms. Rideout. You always do. Doing the right thing is your gift. And your curse.”
“Violet,” said Dick, “you’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.”
Violet sat upright, back straight, hands resting on the table, tears running down her face. Silence. She looked at us in a clockwise rotation, locking eyes with each one of us before moving on. She looked as if she were about to be executed.
“I wanted to say that I have come to love you all very much. You have accepted me, and you have been of good humor with my incessant yapping and nervous tics. Roland, you let me move into casita four without really knowing anything about me.
“Liz plays tennis with me. Frank has shown me some very wonderful Salvadoran recipes. Dick has shown interest in my future. And Burt—in some way I can’t quite explain—I know you have my back.”
Burt sat. The hush was heavy.
“But I’ve been dishonest with you,” Violet said. “And I want to stop that right now. You all talk about lying, and the truth, and how we go forward. You judge Penelope by what she says about her past. We all judge her by that. It’s all the evidence we have to go on.”
She wiped her eyes and continued, voice cracking and tears running off her chin. “My name is Melinda Day and I grew up in Santa Barbara. I come from a well-to-do family and I’ve been advantaged in every material way. I went to Stanford, not Southern Illinois University. I do fly for the airlines, though—that much is true.
“I was all set to be married in June of last year, to my longtime boyfriend, Brandon. But the previous October . . . we went to the concert in Las Vegas. To celebrate . . . And we were there, standing with our arms around each other, I was telling Brandon about this famous writer who lived down the hill from us in Montecito and only wore red athletic shoes everywhere he went, even with a tuxedo . . . and when I stopped talking I heard these pops coming from behind me, from the sky, and I turned and couldn’t see anything and people started screaming and running and Brandon slammed into me. All his weight. Pulled me down . . . His shirt was bloody. And some people helped me drag him behind this low wall and I lay down there with him, got all scrunched up close together like we were sleeping, and he said to run. He told me to run. Then he stopped breathing. I did not run. I did not run.
“My heart was pounding and my face was pushed between the back of his neck and the ground and I could smell his blood. It was soaking me. I thought I might be drowning in it.
“Days later, I knew I couldn’t be Melinda anymore. It was too terrifying. I could no longer . . . inhabit Melinda. So I became Violet. Violet wasn’t in Las Vegas that night. She has no Brandon to remember. Melinda Day has not been available for some time now. But she’s sorry. She asked me to say she’s very sorry for lying to you all.”
Burt handed her a napkin, then another. Violet wiped her face. Liz stared at her. Dick folded his hands and looked at the table. Frank crossed himself. Triunfo panted softly.
When she looked at me, I thought I saw a wisp of resolve come to Violet/Melinda’s tear-burnt face, but maybe it was only the relief of confession.
“So, about Penelope,” she said, “I have two things to say. First, be careful of her, Roland. As a practicing liar I understand her need, though not her reasons. But be careful with her, too. She seems both brave and breakable. You can build her up or tear her down. You have more influence on her than you might realize.”
A long silence. An owl hooting from across the pond. A strong half-moon dangling light on the water. Justine in a rowboat on that pond, floppy hat, brown arms. What to remember? What to forget?
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you all. I value your advice, whether I take it or not.”
“We care,” said Liz.
“Hope I didn’t overstep,” said Dick. “About Justine.”
Violet undaintily blew her nose into a napkin, made a fist around it. “I’ll now be quiet for as long as I can. I’m trying to teach myself not to talk so much. Obviously.”
She smiled as if embarrassed, and sighed. “It’s harder than it sounds, because so many things really deserve to be said. Is that just me? Even before that night I was an incessant talker. Melinda Day could carry on without a comma. Brandon was the first guy who actually listened to what she said. She was used to male attention, being reasonably attractive and very much a man fan. But she noted that few men could listen to her closely for more than just part of one date. Let alone a lifetime. Not that I was sizing up every guy as a possible mate, but to be perfectly honest, I was. Rafael came the closest, junior year of high school. What a sweetie. He’d really hang in there. Hour after hour of me. But around eleven, if it was a date night and not a school night, he’d fall asleep wherever we happened to be. Unless he was driving. He had a red Soul—the car. Kept it really shiny. But if he was a passenger in my car, or if we were watching videos at one of our houses, or hanging with friends—there’d go Rafael, nodding off with that little smile on his face. But Brandon? He could listen all night. And not only that, he was a beautiful man. Naturally, I wanted to write our own wedding vows, and he said, Great, Mel, but they can’t be longer than Infinite Jest. And then when I started actually writing them, you’d never believe it but . . . oh, heck, sorry, sorry, sorry, you guys! I’ll stop now. I will stop right now!”
She sighed hugely. “Just one more thing. I totally promise. Please call me Melinda. I have to start somewhere.”
She looked back over her shoulder. Everyone else looked there, too.
No bullets. No building and no thirty-second-story window.
Just the man in the moon looking down with that odd half-face of his, like he’s eyeing you from around a corner, either groaning or smiling, hard to say.
One by one, the Irregulars and I stood and gathered behind Melinda. She rose and we closed around her. A circle of awkward embraces, a cross between a football huddle and a group hug, Triunfo running around us, hoping to join in.
No words, just this strange new thing between us, silent and strong.
* * *
—
I SAT IN an Adirondack chair down by the shore of the big pond, let the night cool around me. No breeze, the water black with a wobble of silver pointing straight up at the moon. I hadn’t expected the Irregulars to lecture me, but it felt good to be cared about. To have things in the open.
Saw my phone come to life, figured something from a wasp-cam, but it was a text.
Penelope
(760) 555-5555
Thanks for being here today
and listening to Daley. She
is so sweet and bright and I
hope that you understand her.
I’ve prayed long and hard that
you can find her very soon. I
have this black feeling surrounding
me, and it’s getting closer and
tighter. I feel slightly more
optimistic when you are around.
11:48 PM
I thought about that for a minute or two.
She is sweet and bright and
I’m trying my best to locate
her. Reggie owns a mansion
in Mexico that sounds much
like the Mansion on the Sand.
I don’t think he is in control
of Daley right now. I will
find her and you will get some
peace.
11:50 PM
Hope you had a good day.
Hope the Irregulars are well.
Hope deferred makes a heart sick,
but a longing fulfilled is a
tree of life. Says that right
in the good old Bible. I feel
better to have stopped running.
Good night, Roland Ford PI,
one of the last good guys.
11:51 PM
33
////////////////////////
THE next morning, Burt and I sat in a rented white Taurus, parked off Old Highway 101, just outside the north gate of the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station. A white Taurus is as anonymous as a vehicle can be, and we didn’t want to draw so much as a second glance from SNR Security, which knew me as the big guy they’d whaled on outside of Paradise Date Farm, and knew Burt as the little guy who’d showed up a few days later to wash the windows.
I had my phone propped up in the cup holder, waiting for live streams from the wasp-cams. They were quiet. Paradise had been eerily peaceful since Donald and Glassen had donned their radiation suits in order to do who knew what in their hidden lab.
The Last Good Guy Page 20
