The Last Good Guy

by T. Jefferson Parker

  Whistles and war whoops.

  “And slaughter them we must. With their own swords. Let’s start with the federal government of the United States of America . . .”

  While Kyle Odysseus started in on “our hypocritically egalitarian one-party system,” I looked out past the crowd at the old yellow house falling to the ivy and a swimming pool with the patio furniture covered and the big sloping orange grove that continued all the way down the hillside to the road. I saw the cops turning cars away. The protesters were still at it. The old woman with the hat and gloves stooped out of sight for a moment, then rose again amid the scraggly trees, looking up. The rain again thundered into the tent top above me for a few seconds, then again stopped.

  I sidled out the back, meandered down to the parking area like a disappointed rallygoer, then cut downslope and into the dripping orange grove. Slipped my sunglasses into my shirt pocket.

  Midway to the woman, I took cover under a tree and waited to see if I’d been followed. Raindrops dripped from the trees, silver in the gray day. A distant blaze of lightning far in the south. A grumble of thunder. No one behind me. All fascinated by Kyle Smith, aka Kyle Odysseus, aka a voice for white America. I turned and saw the woman putting something into a white bucket.

  I sidestepped down the hill toward her, calling out.

  “Marie? Marie Knippermeir?”

  She looked at me and set down the bucket. Put her white-gloved hands on her hips as I approached.

  “Marie?”

  “Yes?”

  I took off my hat in a show of manners. “I was hoping I’d find you here. I’m Blake Hopper, with the Family Values Coalition, up in Fallbrook. One of Alfred’s groups.”

  “I love Fallbrook.”

  “So do I. I like this rain, too.”

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  We talked for a few minutes about rain and lack of rain, as Southern Californians often do. I saw that her bucket was about half full of reasonably good-looking oranges. I noted that the ground around us was littered with shriveled, squirrel-chewed fruit, some of it dried black and hard.

  “Do you need some help?” I asked. “Looks like lots of fruit to pick.”

  “I prefer to work alone. Do you enjoy the White Power Hours?”

  “This is my first,” I said. “We’re hoping to get more funding from Alfred, but a lot of hands are out.”

  “Hate is so expensive,” she said. “But worth it to Alfred. He loves his work. He’ll die at his desk. Or maybe in a tent. But that’s not a cheerful thought.”

  Under the brim of her big hat, her face was plump and her complexion rosy. Eyes like little blue pools. “What does your group believe in?”

  “Exactly that—family values.”

  “I love family values. Pies and picnics and—when they list the American boys killed in action on PBS? I tear up.”

  A cheer came from the crowd on top of the hill. As it trailed off, Odysseus’s amplified words cut through. Something about “the only meaningful thing Muslims have ever done in America is 9/11!” before the applause flooded over his voice again.

  I looked up to see two chinos-and-golf-shirt SNR men staring down at me.

  Time to nudge this along. “You like beautiful homes, don’t you?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Beautiful properties, like this one. And the House of Fallen Angels in Mexico.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “We’re interested in renting the House of Fallen Angels for a Family Values Coalition retreat,” I said. “It has everything we need, except an affordable price. It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to Alfred about today.”

  The two golf-shirted men had become three, still looking my way.

  “It’s very expensive and far from here,” said Marie.

  “True, it’s a long flight to Cabo. And the Fallbrook FVC isn’t exactly drowning in money.”

  “So much comes down to money with these nervous little haters,” said Marie. “Last month at the White Power Hour, our keynote speaker was hawking autographed T-shirts and coffee mugs with his picture on them. Not just a logo. His face. But you seem different. Are you?”

  I looked up for the men. Still there. “Something closer to Fallbrook would be less expensive, too. For our retreat, I mean.”

  “When I was young I was idealistic,” said Marie. “I married the prettiest, loveliest man. He died of a disease they didn’t have a name for yet. He got his own lymphoma named for him and I got a dead husband. Alfred has been miraculous, though. I had no business marrying him at my age, and being crazy. Or so they say. He’s much kinder than he looks. Empathetic, too, which is unusual in someone who hates people different than himself. He was raped as a child. He still screams when he dreams. Don’t tell him I told.”

  “Never.”

  “What was it you were talking about?”

  “Renting a beautiful property for a Family Values Coalition retreat,” I said. “It’s in April of next year. We have a respectable budget, but not a fortune.”

  The men started down the embankment, heading for the grove, one of them on his phone.

  “Come closer,” said Marie.

  I stopped in front of her. I could hear the distant crunch of the men moving through dead leaves. Marie lifted a white-gloved hand to my face, put her thumb on the hollow of one cheek and stretched her fingers to the other, bridging my mouth with her palm. Her small blue eyes seemed to have iced over. Pupils like pinheads. She turned my face to the left. To the right. Then stared at me straight on.

  “What do you want?”

  “A good deal on a luxury property. To rent for our retreat.”

  “I see no hate in you,” she said. “But someone has given you a good old-fashioned beating. I’ll bet you’re plotting something. What? Quickly, Mr. Hooper—what are you plotting!”

  “It’s Hopper.”

  “They’re coming, Hopper. Answer me!”

  “Vengeance.”

  “Is that a family value?”

  “There are some family values in my vengeance, yes.”

  She let go of my face, stood back, and picked up her bucket. I could hear the men closing in. A burst of rain. I put my hat on. The downpour swiftly turned to a drizzle. I shook the water off my hat, put it back on again.

  “Rain in Eden,” said Marie.

  “Do you have a rental for me or not?”

  She looked hurt. “Possibly. I bought another lovely property just recently. It’s where a cotton field used to be, up north in San Clemente, I think. I was there for a while. But Alfred brought me back down here last week because he needed it for something.”

  “I wonder what.”

  “Alfred doesn’t tell me all his business,” said Marie. “I’m just his bank. And a good one I am. You two can talk about a fair price. But I am willing to rent our property to your group, Mr. Hopper. I do have some sway here. I like what I see in you. And what I don’t.”

  Through the dripping orange trees the three golf shirts approached, well watered by the last monsoonal dump.

  “Marie, is this man bothering you?”

  “Not at all. We were just conducting a little business. You look familiar.”

  “Jason, ma’am. And Bo and Miller.”

  “Jason and the Argonauts! I remember you.”

  They were young and fit, and their drenched shirts were tucked in, their half-soaked khakis pressed. I could see on their faces that they were eager to get at me. But no evidence that they knew who I was.

  “Mister,” said Jason. “Alfred told us to keep the rally crowd in the tent area and off his private property. Last month there was some damage and possibly theft. So, please, let Mrs. Battle pick her oranges. And you come with us now.”

  I put my hat back on and tipped it to Marie Battle. She
smiled and gave me a little wave, brief, half secret.

  I started back up the hill, surrounded by Jason and the Argonauts.

  “What the fuck are you doing down here?” asked Jason.

  “I’m with the Family Values Coalition of Fallbrook,” I said. “We’re looking for a retreat rental. Something nearby and afforda—”

  “Talk to Alfred Battle. He runs the show. Don’t pick on Marie. She’s got enough problems without shitballs like you trying to pick her pockets. You want something special from Mr. Battle, go to 4chan and get in line with the other phonies. In fact, when we get to the parking lot, you get in your car and get the hell out of here.”

  “Tell Mr. Battle I enjoyed the rally.”

  “Beat it, asshole.”

  39

  ////////////////////////

  GRANDPA DICK’S convincing City of San Clemente emblems, attached to both flanks of a rented white Malibu, and a city Building Services Department business card he’d counterfeited were enough to get Gerald Mason past the Cyprus Shore security booth.

  Dick had worked extra-hard on the vehicle signs, especially on the city seal. If prosecuted and convicted for this risky trick, he could draw a hefty judgment for defrauding the public, impersonating a public official, and copyright infringement, and I could lose my license for five years for conspiracy to defraud.

  To up my chances of success with guards who might well have seen me two days earlier, I’d dyed my dark brown hair. Melinda and Liz said it now looked like vanilla-caramel-swirl ice cream. I’d added a realistic costume mustache. And there I was, Gerald Mason: big, bad, and blond. In chinos, a golf shirt, and a blazer, no less. I could have applied for work with SNR, helped them segregate, nullify, and remove those pesky mud people from the rest of us.

  At Cotton Point Estates, I had to explain to a tough American Response guard that a homeowner confined to her house with disabilities had requested city building code requirements and fees and didn’t want her name on the guest list. Worried about the neighbors, I noted. The guard was a woman. Ruthven. She squinted at me skeptically, the morning sun in her eyes. I lifted my aluminum citation keeper clipboard for her to see—a souvenir from my days in traffic control, many moons ago. The gate rolled open.

  Sixteen estates. Sixteen chances to discover if one of them might be Daley Rideout’s plush prison. My most recent visits to IvarDuggans, just hours earlier, had once again yielded no clue as to which mansion might belong to Marie Knippermeir, if any actually did at all. I clung to the hope that she had amplified the Cotton Point development to “where a cotton field used to be, up in San Clemente.”

  If Melinda Day was right, and luck was just an invisible hole into which you might or might not step, then my chances of seeing Daley, or any solid link to Daley, were poor. But if luck is something you make, as I have come to believe, and I could find a way to keep from drawing attention to myself, I might be able to beg, borrow, and steal enough minutes to find her place of luxury internment.

  So I hid in plain sight, with the zoom Olympus under my blazer on the passenger seat, just in case. Toured the ’hood, as if looking for an address, working east to west, starting with Via Calandria. My computer search had given me three estates offered for sale that I could likely cross off the list. Price range $5 million to $44 million.

  Down to thirteen, just like that.

  On Calle Isabella, a dashing redhead in a Porsche convertible swept out of the circular driveway of a Neopolitanesque mansion. Justine had been a dashing redhead once, and had driven a Porsche, too. I pulled over and watched the woman and the car, a painful knot in my throat. Waved politely, as did she. Thought about Justine. Four years and five months. It’s harder to picture her now. Not that the images fade, but there are fewer of them to choose from. Some stay. Some go. They vanish slowly, like snapshots left in the sun. It’s how you move forward.

  Down to twelve.

  From another Calle Isabella home, an older couple walked arm-in-arm under the porte cochere, supporting each other equally toward a black Lincoln Navigator.

  Beside a French country extravaganza on Calle Lisa was a blue tennis court surrounded by languorous palms. An instructor fed volleys to a woman at the net. The pro stopped to demonstrate a proper split step, racquet up and out and ready to carve, knees bent. The woman tried, seemed to be getting it.

  Ten. Probably.

  A young mom ran a stroller down a driveway on Calle Louisa.

  Squads of gardeners, rakes raking and blowers blowing. Pool cleaners. A laundry-service van.

  On Calle Marlena, two boys flipped a white lacrosse ball back and forth on a big green lawn.

  Onward to Calle Ariana, back up to Via Calandrai, then onto Calle Isabella again.

  By eleven o’clock I had eliminated two more estates, leaving me with six.

  I pulled into the shade of a huge coral tree outside one of them, set my lunch bag on the passenger seat, and cracked an energy drink. I set my phone in the cup holder, hoping for wasp-cam action. The less activity we saw at Paradise Date Farm, the more it bothered me.

  A text message from Penelope:

  Dreamed of you last night. Actually

  a rhinoceros in Armani, kind of a

  swanky wild-animal thing, but the

  rhino was you and we danced and we

  were quite good together in spite of

  the horn, which at the end of the dance

  I swung on like on a jungle gym when I

  was a happy girl all those light-years

  ago. Don’t worry. Freud was right.

  Sometimes a rhino horn is just a rhino

  horn. Get it? Where is my girl?

  Please bring her to me now. Been too

  long. I miss her. Make her be here, Roland Ford.

  * * *

  —

  THE SILVER SNR EXPEDITION approached from behind me at 11:48 a.m. I saw it coming in the rearview and faced away as it went by. When it turned onto Calle Marlena I started up my Malibu and slowly followed. Entries and exits are what cook you as a follower. As I eased onto Calle Marlena I saw the SUV pull into the circular drive of a formidable two-story block mansion, headed for the porte cochere. The porte cochere was laced by mandevilla vines, abundant with pink blooms.

  I couldn’t sit there in the middle of the street, so I crept along, riding the brakes with my clipboard up, looking around as if lost. The Expedition parked. Connor Donald and Eric Glassen headed toward the front porch and an enormous wood-and-iron door. Donald pushed a ringer, and a long moment later Adam Revell pulled open the big door and let his compatriots inside. I caught a glimpse of the foyer, a rustic iron chandelier and a stone wall with sconces leading toward sunlight. Noted the address as I drove by.

  I circled back to the shade of the coral tree and finished my lunch.

  Stayed as long as I thought I could without drawing unwanted attention from the residents.

  Without worrying Ruthven.

  Feeling the luck. Whether I’d made it or fallen into it didn’t matter. I believed I was onto something good.

  Believed for a few more fruitless hours.

  * * *

  —

  BACK THE NEXT morning. The same guards believed the same story but gave me different looks. Ruthven looked ready to challenge me but stood down. I was pressing my luck, but it would have been worse to show up with my third version in five days.

  I passed by Marie Knippermeir’s stone-block mansion and parked in a shaded parklike border between a Venetian canal house and a Castilian manse. I had a good view of Marie’s place, where two SNR vehicles waited under the porte cochere.

  Sipped my coffee and kept an eye on the house, and on my phone in the cup holder. Cameras one and two picked up a Paradise Date Farm truck as it lumbered through the barnyard. Then, after the requisite sixty seconds of inactivit
y, went black. But when nine o’clock rolled around—the time when the SNR “school” was usually busy with students, moms, and dads—there was no streaming video at all. Had the wasp-cams been discovered? Run out of power? Had SNR shut the school down? Why?

  Over the next two hours I moved my bogus City of San Clemente vehicle to three different locations, keeping Marie’s estate in view and trying not to draw the attention of the locals.

  Saw the same landscape workers and pool cleaners I’d seen the day before but working at different properties. The woman hit with her tennis pro. No lacrosse boys on the big green lawn.

  At about noon a brightly colored pizza truck brought lunch to an estate just south of Marie’s on Calle Marlena. A few minutes later the redhead in her Porsche headed up Via Calandria on her way out of Cotton Point Estates.

  It was one o’clock when a shiny black Mercedes AMG sedan swept into Marie’s driveway and parked in the shade. Reggie Atlas sprang out and headed for the door. He was dressed in his preaching duds: jeans and white running shoes and a white open-collared shirt. I shot him with the Olympus, shutter sound off. He rang the doorbell and ran a hand through his thatch of heavy blond hair. Waited awhile, checked his watch. Adam Revell finally opened the door and Atlas went inside without conversation. The chandelier and the foyer leading to sunlight flashed briefly, then vanished behind the door of wood and iron.