Reef Dance

by John Decure

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Shepard!” Sue Ellen protested. “I wasn’t finished.”

  I put my arm around Sue Ellen’s shoulder and gripped her. She felt surprisingly frail to me, as if she might break apart if handled too roughly. “Come on, let’s go talk about this somewhere else,” I said.

  “Ya better go before I call the cops!” the woman yelled as she slammed the door. I turned Sue Ellen toward the street and slowly walked her off the porch. She wept onto my shoulder, hiding her face.

  “Time to go home,” I said. “Is that your truck?”

  She nodded at the beaten red pickup down the street.

  A young, dark-skinned man in a paisley long-sleeve and dirty white jeans pushed an ice cream cart up the street from Sunset, ringing a little chrome bell on the handlebar as he went. Sue Ellen continued to cry. I walked her over to the truck and gently leaned her against the door. “Go home,” I told her. “Take it easy. Thank you for helping, but I want you to forget about all this for now.”

  Without warning she threw both her arms around my shoulders and clung to me as if she were drowning. More tears. I softly patted her back, uncomfortable to be held this tightly for this long. Sue Ellen squeezed me harder, her cries muffled against my chest.

  I rocked her slightly. “It’s all right. Just go home.”

  Finally she let go, turned, and climbed into the cab. She looked at me once more with those sad eyes. “You’re so kind,” she said. “You know, you’re my only real friend.”

  “Go home,” I said. She didn’t argue now or even answer, but I knew she’d wanted me to keep holding her a minute ago when we were in the street. “Call me if you need to talk.” I stepped clear of the vehicle. She turned away, the engine starting with a shudder and a cloud of smoke, and drove off.

  I sat in my car for a good long while waiting to make a simple left turn onto Sunset. The Raiderette was gone, replaced by a blond, mini-skirted Latina with brown roots and a harsh glare. A diminutive old woman in a black dress held hands with a toddler as they crept past the hood of my Jeep. A uniformed man unloaded cases from a beer truck double-parked in front of a liquor store. High, bent palms drifted in a steady late afternoon westerly, a breeze that was too far inland now to carry with it even a hint of the cool Pacific. When the traffic finally broke, I swung out into the eastbound lanes on Sunset. Out of habit I checked my rearview mirror. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw a big American sedan—maybe silver—pull onto Sunset heading the other way, toward Hollywood.

  Jackie hadn’t gotten very far at Woodside Hospital—a receptionist who’d stayed late kept him from accessing Dr. Weinstein’s employee records. But he was sufficiently optimistic about what he’d find the next day, enough so that when he filled me in on his day, I felt compelled to spring for dinner.

  We dined on shrimp cocktails and fresh mahi mahi at the Captain’s Galley. I told Jackie about Carmen and Albert and asked him to help with the surf lesson. Sure, he said, but he seemed distracted—probably too excited about the prospect of more serious surf on the way to pay much mind to anything else. He’d heard a rumor from a “mega-reliable” source that an intense Antarctic storm with an enormous fetch was kicking up a huge swell for next week. The action was about to heat up. With luck the swell would hit after—not during—the trial.

  We talked about Lois Nettleson. Jackie was certain she’d given me her home phone number when I left her office. “Sophisticated lady,” he said. “Wants to see how you hold your fork at dinner before you get any dessert. You’ll probably have to take her out, show her a good time. She’ll make you wait ’til she thinks it’s the right time. Then she’ll make her move. The most important thing with a woman like her, making good money and divorced from a hot-shit lawyer, is to let her think she’s in the driver’s seat.” He looked around, then at me. “Ever let a woman handcuff you? It’s a trip and a half.”

  I related the details of my scrap with Don Brill, the private investigator. Jackie was enthralled. “He was shading you, boss?”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s what I said.”

  “Was he packing heat?”

  “Packing heat? I don’t know if anybody ‘packs heat’ anymore. You watch too much bad TV, Jack.”

  He shrugged. “What other kind is there?”

  I poured the last of a bottle of Chardonnay.

  “Well, was he?” he said.

  “No, he didn’t have a gun. I wouldn’t be here if he did.”

  Jackie looked stoked. “But you tapped him,” he said. “Unreal.”

  I described the finishing touch I’d put to Donald Brill’s car.

  Jackie slapped the tabletop. “No way! You gave his hood ornament a golden shower? That’s classic!”

  “What about the Pontrellis’ landlord?” I said.

  “Forget him. Everything the social worker said he said was pretty much word for word. He hates your client, buddy. Said she’s a lyin’ hillbilly. An inbreeder.” Jackie took an extended swill from his glass of wine. “You seen Sue Ellen’s husband?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jackie rubbed his knuckles in contemplation. “Well, you think she and the happy hubby kinda look alike?”

  “Knock it off,” I said. “You’re gonna have to focus more on what happened at Woodside. Talk to the nurses who were there. They made her have that baby prematurely, and in pain. There’s got to be a reason.”

  He thought for a moment. “Maybe I could tail the rich folk around town a bit. Hubby probably goes to work all day, but I’ll bet she doesn’t work.” His blue eyes narrowed. “Leaves a lot of idle time. Never know what she might be up to.”

  “Just keep your distance,” I said. “I don’t want you hassling the Danforths. If they find out you’re following them, I’ll never hear the end of it. And remember, do not break the law. You do anything that compromises me and—”

  “Uh, J.?” Jackie said, gazing across several tables toward the bar. “I think you’ve got more immediate problems. Check it out.”

  I turned my head just in time to see a shaky videotape image alighting on the big-screen TV above the bar. The first thing I recognized was the tailgate of the old red pickup, then Sue Ellen’s yellow T-shirt. “Christ,” I said.

  We tossed our napkins on our chairs and rushed across the room. “Turn up the volume!” I yelled to the bartender.

  The bartender began to greet us, but we both stared up at the screen without another word. “You got it,” he said, pointing the remote over his shoulder.

  “Quiet!” Jackie roared. The dozen or so patrons at the bar fell silent.

  “. . . a case in which emotions have run high from the start,” came Holly Dupree’s voice-over. “But is J. Shepard, the court appointed lawyer for the suspected baby-seller Sue Ellen Randall, crossing the line by . . .” The whole room watched as Sue Ellen pressed herself into my chest, her head nestling under my chin.

  “Hmm,” Jackie said, “the lady definitely digs on you, man.”

  “. . . right and wrong, between zealous advocacy and personal involvement . . .” Holly’s peppy narrative went on. She must get off on making people look bad, I thought. Then she was questioning a law professor—a bespectacled guy seated before a phalanx of golden case reporters—about the rules of professional conduct concerning sex with clients.

  “What does this intimate embrace tell you?” Holly asked the professor.

  “Well, Holly,” the professor said, “from what you tell me, this young woman is quite vulnerable. Her attorney is in a position of trust with her, one of authority. Now if he is in fact having intimate relations with her . . .”

  “Where’d she get the video?” Jackie asked.

  “Donald Brill, Brill Investigations,” I said under my breath. Had to be. He’d seen my organizer, copped the address. The payback for my punching him out had been far swifter than I’d imagined.

  “What’s all this shit about, J.?” Jackie said, still staring at the big screen.

  Nelson Gilbride�
��s delighted face was now on camera from another live remote set up by Channel Six. “Oh yes, I think it’s highly unethical, Holly,” Gilbride puffed. “But then, Sue Ellen Randall is a very crafty woman. She could well be manipulating this young man much as she manipulated my clients. . . .”

  I briefly turned away from the unfolding spectacle. “They’re going to try to get me thrown off the case,” I said to Jackie.

  “Can they?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know” I closed my eyes. How had I missed Brill? And what had made me think for even a second that he—or Gilbride, for that matter—would back off just because I’d pushed back a little? These people were bent on winning any way they could. They didn’t care if my job and reputation were sacrificed in the process.

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I said. We watched another replay of the embrace. By now I was beyond shame or self-loathing. I was truly scared. “They’re just trying to muddy the waters.”

  “You ask me, they’re doing a damn fine job,” Jackie said.

  I glared at him. I knew I’d fucked up again, but this thing was far from over. “You get somewhere out at Woodside, it might help matters a bit.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  No one spoke for a while. The crowd at the bar had regained its normal noise level. Thankfully, the TV had been switched to a football game.

  “You shag her, boss?” Jackie said at last.

  I stared at him queerly. “You’re quite the sensitive guy, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged innocently. “Hey, you broke up with the goddess recently, or vice versa.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “We all have our needs.”

  “Nice insight. Listen, Phoebe’s history,” I told him, “but this has nothing to do with getting laid. I would never sleep with a client. I’m surprised that even you would ask me that.”

  Above us, football disappeared from the big TV and, like a recurring nightmare, the Channel Six News was showing a rerun of my embrace with Sue Ellen, this time in slow motion.

  “Christ, somebody change the channel,” I said.

  Jackie’s eyes were on the TV. “Ho, we’re back. Oh, my. That why they call it attorney-client privilege? Mmm-mm.” He grinned at me. “You sure you’re not—”

  “I’m sure!” I said. “Knock it off.”

  “Well hey, sorry I asked.” Jackie gestured at the TV as if vindicated by the on-screen evidence. “It seemed like a logical question.”

  Fourteen

  Carmen Manriquez and her brother Albert were right on time Saturday morning. Jackie jumped when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” he said, bouncing out of his chair. He’d been dying to lay his eyes on Carmen ever since last night, when I’d enlisted him in some last minute house cleaning in anticipation of her visit. Any woman who caused me to clean sinks and toilets on a Friday night had to be super-fine, he’d reasoned.

  “No, I got it,” I said, cutting in front of him in the dining room, but he squirted by me and we both raced for the door.

  “Listen,” I said before he turned the knob, “you get X-rated and you’re dead.”

  “Trust me,” he said, opening the door. “Well, hello!” He grinned at our guests. “Everybody’s stoked.”

  Carmen was looking super-fine indeed, in a loose khaki army shirt and cuffed shorts made from a pair of old fatigues, huaraches on her feet. Around her neck was the same small gold cross she’d worn in the Las Palomas office the day I’d met her.

  “Cowabunga,” she said.

  Albert was half a head shorter than his sister, but stocky and thick-shouldered. He wore a Dodgers baseball cap tilted up on his forehead and a blue warmup suit with vertical white stripes on the pantlegs and sleeves. The suit was probably a half-size too big, the fabric bunching around his ankles and sleeves. He had the slow eyes and listless expression of a young man with Down syndrome, but his features were otherwise average. I thought he looked more like fifteen than twenty-four.

  I pushed open the screen door. “Cowabunga!” Albert said, mimicking Carmen.

  I invited them into the living room. “Hot sauce,” Jackie whispered to me, ogling Carmen from behind.

  Albert had brought a black vinyl carry bag, which he lugged over to the coffee table and set down. Jackie was watching Albert with a strange puzzlement. Afraid he might bail on me, I’d purposely not told Jackie that his pupil for today was mentally handicapped.

  “Hey J.,” he said, “you thought about what might happen if he gets hurt? I mean, this dude doesn’t look quite normal. What if he can’t swim? Is he a re—”

  “Don’t even say it,” Carmen said, stepping in front of Jackie. “My brother can swim fine. And he’s not ignorant. He knows how to use his head. Know how to use yours?”

  Jackie retreated, stunned. Carmen stood her ground, arms folded, while Albert fiddled with his bag, oblivious to the confrontation not five feet away.

  “J., you didn’t tell me this guy was such a stud,” Jackie said, instantly changing course. “Hey, my man,” he said to Albert, extending his hand. “Put her there.” They shook hands. “Like granite!” Jackie reacted as if his hand had been squeezed in a vise. Albert laughed wildly.

  His sister looked on, totally unruffled. Here was a woman who could back off Jackie Pace without hesitation. I felt something for Carmen that I’d never felt for Phoebe.

  “By the way, Carmen, this is Jackie,” I said.

  “Pleasure meeting you, Carmen.” Jackie flashed a brilliant smile, which seemed to have little effect on her.

  “You too,” she said.

  Jackie looked to me, chastened. “This is going to be an interesting session,” I said.

  “My brother Albert,” said Carmen. “Albert, this is J., and Jackie.”

  “Hola, compadre,” I said.

  “I’ll arm wrestle you,” Albert said to Jackie with a pronounced slur in his speech. “I’m strong . . . like Mighty Mouse.” He flexed his biceps, his arms wrenched up into tightly curled fists.

  “Well all reet!” Jackie said, backing up to make room for Albert’s pose. “You’re on, iron man!”

  Jackie and Albert proceeded to arm wrestle on the coffee table, Albert winning every bout over his almost comically larger opponent.

  “How are the waves today?” Carmen asked me.

  “Haven’t looked, but last night it was three feet or so. Windy, but a few nice peaks. Good beginner size. How’d Albert like the idea of surfing?”

  “You kidding?” she said. “He could hardly sleep last night, he was so excited.” Across the room, Albert was in ecstasy after pinning Jackie’s forearm to the table yet again. Jackie had turned Albert’s Dodgers cap backward and was now describing surfing to him in what sounded like the broadest terms possible.

  “J., you’re sure Albert will be safe?” Carmen asked.

  “You watch. Like the man said, he’s gonna be stoked.”

  “Stoked?”

  I smiled as she fixed her lovely eyes back on me. “Stoked is the operative word around here.”

  “I brought your letters. They’re all translated.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’ll have lunch here after we surf. Let’s talk about it then.”

  Jackie and I fitted Albert into an old wetsuit Britt had outgrown in recent years, and I handed Carmen the women’s suit I’d rented at the Bay Surf Shop the night before. “Hope it’s your size,” I told her. “I had to guess.”

  She held up the wetsuit, which looked like a decent fit. “Good guess.”

  After suiting up, Jackie and I grabbed our sticks and the boards we’d chosen for them, a couple of used seven-two speed shapes (mini-longboards). I stuffed a bar of wax under my wetsuit sleeve and we walked the four blocks to the pier.

  The morning was calm and cloudless, the tide medium-low and slowly ascending to a three-foot high at noon. A chest-high southwest swell was pushing in, crossed up by a touch of local windswell, and the peak just north of the pier pilings was alr
eady jammed with die-hard weekend longboarders and kids on boogies.

  We walked the length of the Northside beach until we reached the warm water jetty at the far end of town. The surf was as big as at the pier, but less shapely and without the crowd. Albert was thrilled just to be carrying a board by himself. Jackie watched surfers taking off on waves and pointed out to Albert the difference between a left and a right, a goofy-foot and a regular-footer.

  “I saw you on TV,” Carmen said to me.

  I grimaced. “I’ll be glad when this case is over,” I said. “My client hugs me and all hell breaks loose.”

  “I know something about local news,” she said. “They did a slam piece on us a few years ago when that woman buried her twins in cement.”

  “I remember that case,” I said.

  “She’d been in the system, had a Las Palomas parenting certificate from us. People were just looking for someone to blame. Believe me, I know what you’re dealing with.”

  Jackie halted us. “Okay, groms,” he said, “this is where we hit it.” We were just south of the jetty, at the place where I’d ridden my first wave with my father twenty-three years ago. “Let’s go over a few basics, eh?”

  We studied the surf, much in the way my day taught me on my first day of surfing. Three to five foot faces on the sets; four waves in a set; long lefts and a few short rights; medium tide causing the midsized waves to back off quickly; the biggest waves rolling nicely all the way inside; no apparent rip currents. Then Jackie laid Albert and Carmen’s boards face up in the sand and had them practice grabbing their rails and swinging up to their feet in one fluid motion. Carmen was lithe and agile, while Albert struggled mightily but with great determination, popping too far upright to keep his balance even in the soft sand.

  “Lower, Alby,” Jackie counseled him. “Lemme explain. You learn to ride a wave, it can take you anywhere you want to go. High off the top”—he swept his hand in a tight arc in front of his face—“or hard off the bottom”—he banked his left hand in a low, scooping motion. “But the best place you can ride is in the tube, man. That’s where you get your stance.” He dropped into a crouch. “Try it. Like this.”