by Harry Bryant
It's important to keep track of these things. Just in case.
It was late by the time PCH turned north, heading away from the coast. I followed it through a series of small communities that weren't much more than a couple of blocks of ramshackle houses thrown up around a four-way stop. Somewhere up ahead, I knew the terrain got a little steeper, but there wasn't much to see at night. I rolled into Los Alamos around eleven, and figured that was about as far as I should bother.
A bored clerk in a generic hotel off the highway gave me a key in exchange for forty bucks, and waved a hand at the sign informing of checkout time. His duties done, he went back to his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He picked up the tattered paperback he had been reading when I had come in and got right back to work.
"Anyplace to get something to eat?" I asked. "Maybe a drink?"
He shrugged.
"How about some smack?"
He shrugged again.
"Fresh pussy?"
He looked up from his book. "You only paid for single occupancy," he said. "I'll have to charge you twenty bucks more if you have a guest."
I peeled a couple of twenties off my money clip and put them on the counter.
He stared at the money. "Please don't have an orgy in your room," he pleaded. "The owner will fire me."
"Where's the fun in Los Alamos?" I asked.
"There isn't any fun in this shithole," he grumbled.
"So where do you go for fun?"
He tossed the book on the desk, and gave me his full attention. "There ain't nothing out here but oil fields, quarries, and wineries, pal."
"Isn't there a prison out here somewhere?"
He snorted. "Lompoc. And an Air Force base, too. We got everything."
"Sounds like it."
I tapped my fingers on the counter for a few moments, and when he didn't say anything, I went to scoop up the money on the counter. "All right, then," I said.
"Wait, wait," he said. He dropped his feet on the floor, and levered himself out of the chair. "There's a place out on Bell Street. Near the highway interchange at Cat Canyon. Called The Rose. It's a biker bar."
"Now that sounds like fun," I said. I left one of the twenties on the bar.
"It's not a private club," he called after me as I reached the lobby door. "But, you know, it might as well be."
I nodded, and pushed open the door and wandered out into the night.
Fortunately, the hotel was on Bell Street too, and so I followed it for a few miles until I spotted the raised lights surrounding the highway interchange. The Rose was a squat single-story building on the right-hand side of the road. There were a trio of small windows along the front side of the building, but they were covered with heavy curtains. A single neon light burned in one window, advertising an American beer. The parking lot was lit by two heavy lamps mounted on the edge of the building, and there was a lot of chrome in the lot.
There was no one on the road, and so I slowed down to get a better look at the place. A trio of bearded men in dark leather vests were smoking cigarettes near the front door, and they peered at my car, presenting all manner of ‘fuck off' vibe. I kept on rolling, and spotted a guy leaning against his bike in the parking lot. A woman was on her knees in front of him, her head bobbing up and down.
I didn't stop, and continued on to the highway. I took the southbound ramp and headed back to Los Alamos. The only person having any fun at the bar looked like the guy getting the blow job out in the parking lot.
I parked the Mustang at the end of the row of hotel rooms, and carried my pair of bags into the room. It was like every other generic hotel room across the country: bed, table, chair, TV, closet, toilet, bathtub. I put the bag with the cash in the closet and put my other bag on the table.
I slipped off my shoes and grabbed the remote for the TV. The bed was lumpy, and the pillows were overstuffed. There were fourteen channels on the TV, including a couple of pay-per-view options. I flicked through the late newscasts, listened to part of a monologue by one of the late-night talk show hosts, and watched fifteen minutes of some low-budget crime drama. None of it held my attention, and I finally flicked the TV off and tossed the remote aside.
I was restless. I had been doing some thinking during the drive. Matesson could have gotten my number from any number of people that we both knew, and that was primarily how I sourced work these days. Since I kept my contributions to various state and federal infrastructure nearly at zero, I had to rely on the old-school word-of-mouth referral network, which suited both me and my clients just fine. For the most part, I stayed away from the past, and it kept its distance too.
But now, here was Matthew Matesson, the guy who had directed a dozen or so of the first films I had done back in the day, asking me to track down one of the household names from that golden era of filmed adult entertainment. There was a rational explanation for why he had sought me out for this job, and most of the time, the simplest answer was, in fact, the correct one.
But there was an itch between my shoulder blades—that survival sense you developed on the inside. When you knew someone was looking at you from across the cafeteria or the yard. There was going to be trouble soon. I just couldn't figure out where it was going to come from.
Since there wasn't enough space in the room, I did some tai chi in the parking lot to unwind. And then I went to bed.
CHAPTER 4
The complementary continental breakfast offered by the hotel consisted of tepid coffee from a steel urn and a pre-packaged choice of either cheese or mystery fruit danish. The morning clerk was much more personable and charming than the night clerk, and I felt a little bad about not taking her up on the offer of free food.
I drove out Bell Street again, and took another look at the bar in the daylight. The lot was empty, and the building looked even more run-down in the wan morning light. Past the intersection with Cat Canyon Road was a fancy looking winery tasting room. Built in the last year or so. Its parking lot was nicely paved with clearly painted lines.
What a difference fifty yards made.
I turned onto Cat Canyon Road and drove under the highway. According to the map I had picked up while making the pit stop in Oxnard, there were two road to Sisquoc, and both took their sweet time getting to the one-shop town that was the last chance for beer and chips before heading into the San Rafael Mountains. As I drove along the winding road, up and down and around hills covered with grass and stands of chaparral, I started counting oil derricks. No wonder the road went back and forth like a staggering drunk. The only time this route had been surveyed and graded had been when the oil company had been picking spots to drop their shafts.
When I reached the eastern side of the valley, the road straightened out. On my right, the scenery became a procession of vineyards and fallow fields. By the time I reached Sisquoc, I was having second thoughts about passing on the cheap coffee and cheaper danish. The single store in Sisquoc was eclectic in its selection: everything from toilet seats to sports equipment to eighteen varieties of loose leaf tea to racks of cheap beer. Not much in the way of unprocessed breakfast foods, though, and certainly no bacon. I made do, and chatted with the old man working behind the counter for awhile. He was gregarious as all old folks in single-intersection towns are, though he wasn't too knowledgeable about that place up the road, as he called it.
The Hidden Palms Spiritual Center, as Matesson called it.
The old guy gave me directions. Up the one road that runs into the National Forest, he said. Take the only right. If you get to Highway 166, you've gone too far.
Easy enough.
The drive got more scenic in that ‘getting out in the woods' sort of way, and eventually, I came to the singular intersection my local guide had warned me about. I took the right, and bumped along a dusty road for a few more miles until I reached a valley nestled between pine- and oak-covered
hills. The road ran along one edge of the valley, and then it abruptly ended in a large gravel lot. A spur of trees swept down off the hill and sprawled across the valley floor. There was a signboard near a trailhead that wandered into the trees, and opposite the trail was a stone wall—a stirring testament to the seriousness of the ‘retreat' aspect of the Hidden Palms Spiritual Center.
I parked my car next to one of the other four cars in the lot. My back was sore from all the bumps in the road, and I took a minute to stretch out my tight muscles. The sky was clearer, up in the mountains, and the air was remarkably crisp and fresh. A hawk screamed high overhead, and a light wind played with the tops of the pine trees.
Totally peaceful and picturesque. I was certain tiny rabbits would come hopping along at any moment. Little cuddly brown ones.
The hawk would ruin it, though. He'd swoop down and nab the cute one who stopped to stare at me. Predators were like that.
Thinking about the tyranny of the animal kingdom made me think about Baby Baby and mountain lions. Maybe if I started leaving bits of sirloin out . . .
The wall was more than six feet high, and it was made from red brick and concrete—locally sourced, no doubt, from one of the many quarries the night clerk at the hotel had been referring to. A metal gate covered the wide gap in the wall, where a paved road went back between rows of tall cottonwood trees. A couple hundred yards away from the gate was a white three-story house with a wrap-around porch. Beyond it, I got the sense there were a few more buildings, and looking to the left and right, I spotted well-manicured lawns and hedges. I didn't see anyone strolling about, and there wasn't any sort of guard hut near the gate.
Mounted to the wall on the right side of the gate was a plain sign that said "Hidden Palms Spiritual Center" in a nicely decorative font. Underneath the name was a notice that visitors would be seen by appointment only. Beneath the sign was a black call box. I opened it, and picked up the phone receiver inside.
A soft beeping tone sounded as I held the phone up to my ear, suggesting that somewhere a phone was ringing. As I waited, I glanced up and spotted the closed circuit camera. It was mounted on the metal brace that held the gate to the wall. I smiled and waved, trying to appear friendly.
The phone clicked, and a polite female voice answered. "Hidden Palms," she said. "How may I help you?"
"Hi, I read about this place in Sunset Magazine," I said. "I was in the area, and thought I'd check it out."
"I'm sorry, sir. You must have misread that article in Sunset—"
"Can I come in for a tour?"
"We don't do tours."
"You do appointments, though. Right?"
"Do you have one?"
"An appointment? No. Can I make one?"
The line went dead.
I hung up the phone, and took another look through the gate at the grounds of the retreat center. I still didn't see anyone, and without any other reason to keep standing there, I went back to the car to come up with Plan B.
Plan B presented itself about ten minutes later when a large panel truck rolled up the road, a fog of dust trailing behind it. A shipping company's name was stenciled on the side, and the driver brought the truck close to the gate and honked the horn three times.
I sat in my car, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking about the opportunity here. The truck was tall enough that the passenger side was hidden from the camera mounted on the left side of the gate. I hadn't seen any other cameras, but that didn't mean there weren't any, and there was only one way to find out.
The passenger door of the truck opened, and a guy in dark blue overalls jumped out. He went to the call box, and called up to the main house. He had better luck than I did, because shortly after he hung up the phone, the gate started to slide back on a track mounted to the inside of the wall.
I scrambled out of my car, and darted to the right, swinging wide of the truck. The guy in the overalls got back into the truck, and the driver started to inch the vehicle closer to the gate as the metal barrier rolled on its track. I sprinted to the wall, and as the truck rolled forward, I ran toward it. The truck bumped across the metal track, and just as its rear wheels bounced over the bar, I ducked around the corner of the open gate and dropped behind the nearest hedge.
The truck shifted gear, spewing a cloud of diesel fumes out of its exhaust, and went on up the drive between the cottonwoods. The motor driving the gate engaged, sliding the metal barrier back in place. I stayed in a crouch, breathing heavily. Waiting to see if anyone had noticed my daring effort.
Within a minute or so, the gate finished closing and the miasma of diesel fumes dissipated. Birds kept chirping. A cloud drifted in front of the sun. The trees kept photosynthesizing and the grass kept growing. Nothing else moved.
I peered around the edge of the hedge, taking a better look at the grounds of the retreat center. The hedges were well groomed, and the grass was healthy and mowed regularly. I spotted a couple of heavy benches positioned beneath older cottonwood trees, the sprawling branches of the tree making for good shade. In the distance, I spotted a couple of wooden stakes in the ground. They had colored rings painted on them, and when I spotted metal hoops rising out of the grass nearby, I realized it was a croquet setup.
And that settled the mental conversation I'd been having with myself. It looked like guests had access to the grounds. I stood up, and dusted off my jeans. I was going to stick out more if I tried to be sneaky, and so I wandered toward the main house as if I was just out for a bit of fresh air.
Off to the left of the main house was a small parking lot with a handful of expensive-looking cars. Wings extended off the main house to the left and right. The left-hand wing made a right angle, and the right wing connected to a square building that didn't have any windows. I caught sight of the panel truck behind the building, backed up to a loading dock. The road continued around the warehouse/receiving building, and it terminated in a second parking lot where there were more cars—most of them looked like the sort driven by working-class folk.
I kept strolling, walking parallel to the wall on my right, and as I passed the truck, I got a glimpse of the two guys hauling pallets of wrapped supplies into a well-organized warehouse space. There were a few oil drums lined up next to the raised loading dock, along with a pair of heavy dumpsters.
Past the warehouse, the rest of the main house came into view. The front and the extended wings were the crossbar of a ‘T,' and the long leg was a single-story structure with lots of windows that terminated in a boxy add-on with thin windows that made me think of a church. Behind the house, I caught sight of sunlight reflecting off a pond, and beyond a row of stiff pine trees, there was a rounded shell, like some sort of outdoor amphitheater.
Voices drifted across the parking lot, along with an occasional splash as someone dove into the pool. A pair of women wearing gold uniforms—matching skirts and blouses—appeared from the direction of the pool party. One of them was pushing a cart, laden with linens and dishes, and the other was carrying a basket of bottles. They walked along the concrete path, and I figured they were heading for the kitchen—where the truck was unloading.
I ignored them, and continued along the outside edge of the parking lot. Beyond the lot, a dirt track continued farther back and I figured it looped around toward the amphitheater. Past the shell, the trees got thicker—somewhere back there the wall took a left turn. I spotted a couple of men, wearing uniforms of the same color as the ladies, working near the broad lawn in front of the wood and stone platform.
Keeping my pace casual, I angled toward the voices, and before long, I found myself at the edge of the pool. There were two pools, actually. One was long and narrow, and was probably meant for those industrious types who wanted to swim laps. The other one was irregularly shaped, lined with white stone. There was an artificial waterfall at one end and a diving board at the other end. A handful of small te
nts with drapes that could be raised and lowered at the whims of their occupants were scattered between the long pool and the meandering pool. Adjustable lounge chairs were arranged along the side closest to me, positioned so as to best capture the path of the sun as it crossed the sky overhead.
"Well, hello, there." A woman reclining on one of the deck chairs had noticed me. She was wearing a saffron-colored bikini and a floppy white hat covered her head. A tall glass, sweating heavily in the sunlight, sat on a small table next to her chair. "I don't recognize you," she continued, pulling her dark glasses down an inch to peer at me over the rims.
"I just got in," I said, throwing myself onto the chair next to her. I leaned over and held out my hand. "I'm Robert."
"Julia," she said, taking my hand. Her grip was cool and distant. Her eyes were blue, but distracted. Like she was half-listening to some concerto only she could hear. "You haven't even been to orientation yet, have you?" She giggled lightly. "They don't usually let you wander around dressed like that."
I realized everyone in the pool was wearing swim attire the same color as Julia's bikini. I stripped off my shirt. "Better?" I asked.
She made an agreeable noise as she sipped from her cold drink. Her gaze, while hidden by her sunglasses, traveled from my neck to my groin and back up again. "Better," she sighed. "Almost . . ." She sucked on her drink again, her gaze wandering back down.
"I don't have a swimsuit," I pointed out.
She raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
"Hey, Julia. Who's our new friend?" One of the guys in the pool had noticed me.
She raised a languid hand and waved it dismissively. "He's my friend," she called out.
"Can he come play with us?"
She looked at me again.
"I don't have a swimsuit," I reiterated.
"He's not dressed for the pool," Julia said loudly, sounding a bit put out.
There was laughter from the water, and then something landed with a wet splat on the deck near my chair.
