Blood and Oranges

by James O. Goldsborough

  “Charlie’s Market,” said Rosie. “I saw you there a few times when you lived in Playa del Rey. I knew who you were, always have.” She smiled. “Or at least since the war.”

  “I do remember seeing you. You should have said something.”

  “Too shy to accost a lady doing her shopping.”

  She didn’t seem shy at all. “Come sit down. How are things in Playa del Rey?”

  “Funny thing is that we were neighbors. You lived in the corner house on Montreal, and I lived just down Fowling Street with a view straight out over Ballona. Used to walk my dog by your house, hoping we’d meet, but the only place I ever saw you was Charlie’s.”

  “I tended to get up early and come home late.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m back in Westwood. It’s a shorter drive.”

  Yes, Maggie remembered this woman, remembered catching sight of her in the little market at the foot of the hill where everyone shopped, remembered thinking that she was too elegant for the beach, too pale, though it would be natural with hair and skin like hers to stay out of the sun. She did nothing to hide her age—no makeup, no lifts, no makeovers, a woman content with what nature had given her.

  “How is Charlie’s?”

  “Same place. Charlie died. Owned by Koreans now.”

  “Tell me about the Ballona Club.”

  She’d come to talk about the Summa hearings. An hour later they decided to continue the discussion at the Sixth Street Grill, where the hamburgers were good.

  Like countless others, Rosie Travers had come west because she thought she was attractive and talented enough to land a job in Hollywood. The stories of those who never quite make it are the stuff of films usually better than those for the ones who do make it, but Rosie had no regrets. She met Bruce Roberts, who worked for a local television station, a man who loved the outdoors as much she did. She’d been brought up on Long Island, near the Seatuck Wildlife Refuge. Her father, Ed, had a twenty-foot ketch, and by the time Rosie was a teenager he’d taken her into every cove and inlet between Great Cove and Nicoll Bay. Their favorite cruise was south to the little islands north of Fire Island, dots in the Great South Bay. They went with poles, buckets, backpacks, cameras and boots. Ed had filled a dozen scrapbooks with photos of their excursions by the time Rosie left home.

  “Playa del Rey was natural for us,” she said, biting into a juicy burger. “Bruce was raised in Newark—California’s Newark, that is, on San Francisco Bay. He grew up with boats and tides and marshes just like I did. We actually met on an outing. He kept a rowboat in Ballona Creek, not far from the old UCLA boathouse.” She laughed. “Our first date was in his rowboat if you can believe it. He kept an inflatable raft in the rowboat, one of those one-man army surplus things . He would paddle around the marshes and do a little fishing. He tried to get me into that thing once, but there’s no room for two—which he knew.”

  Rosie was entertaining, but her serious side kept breaking through. “Those Ballona marshes, by the way, with rowboats and rafts, are part of the area that Summa claims is not wet enough to be classified as wetlands. Now you tell me how you can row a boat and fish on ground that isn’t wet. I doubt anyone from Summa has ever set eyes on Ballona, which, if you think about it, is actually a mini Everglades. The name wetlands does not fit a place where you can push out in a rowboat and drop your line six feet in the water.”

  As much as Rosie talked, Maggie had the feeling she was holding something back, something to do with the real reason she’d come to the foundation. She mentioned trips to Sacramento but offered nothing about why she’d gone, even when Maggie asked. “One more trip to make first,” was all she would say. The Ballona Club had grown from five members to more than a hundred, growth spurting on news of Howard Hughes’s death, which people in Playa del Rey understood was going to change things permanently for the place they called home.

  In Salt Lake City, Bill Gay announced that a search was underway for a Hughes will, which would clarify any questions about disposition of the Hughes land. In Los Angeles, “Ram” Morton, with Trevor Bonfeld by his side, held a press conference to proclaim that Summa was going ahead with Fred Goering’s plan to create a unique “city within a city” called Playa Vista that encompassed land from Hughes airfield to the Pacific Ocean. Howard Hughes, said Morton, had signed off on the design before his death.

  Maggie’s second meeting with Rosie came a month later in the Sierra Club’s offices in what was now called the ARCO Building, with Cal and Lizzie also present. This time Rosie came with a thick, heavily tabbed notebook and was finally ready to talk about Sacramento, whence she’d just returned. Since Hughes’s death, she had visited every state agency that had any responsibility for land management, wildlife or the coast. She’d met with staffs and directors and spent time in their archives and libraries, making notes and taking photos with a mini archival camera.

  “It looks like someone in the governor’s office has been bought,” she said, turning to a tab at the back of the notebook and producing several photos. “These survey documents from the Department of Land Management classify one-half of the Ballona land, or roughly sixteen hundred acres out of thirty-two hundred, as wetlands protected from development under the Coastal Act. That would protect everything between the Hughes airfield and the new marina and west to Playa del Rey.” She passed the documents around. “However, in its official filing, the governor’s office stated that the Ballona wetlands consisted of only five hundred acres, not sixteen hundred, which is ridiculous.”

  “How could they do that?” asked Lizzie.

  “Summa got to somebody. I had the feeling that Land Management wanted their report to be made public, that they don’t agree at all with the governor’s office. They are as interested in stopping Summa as we are.”

  “I smell a story,” said Lizzie

  “But you’re not a reporter anymore,” said Cal. “You run a foundation.”

  “Why would the governor be cheating on official survey documents?” asked Maggie.

  “I doubt it got to the governor,” said Rosie. “More likely someone in his office is on Summa’s payroll.”

  “The Coastal Commission will have to rule on this,” Cal said. “Trouble is that commissioners are politicians, too. What if Summa gets to them?”

  “So we go to the people again,” said Rosie. “As I’ve told Maggie, that’s why I came to the foundation.”

  “So you do want money.”

  “No! This will be your campaign.”

  “Do you have any idea how much it costs to run a referendum campaign? Against Summa, with its billions?”

  “We’ll have the Times on our side,” said Lizzie.

  “Isn’t Dorothy Chandler fundraising for a huge arts pavilion across First Street from the Times?” asked Rosie.

  “I believe so,” said Lizzie.

  “And isn’t the pavilion architect Playa Vista’s own Fred Goering?”

  “Otis won’t sell out because of his mother’s arts pavilion, will he?” said Maggie.

  “You’ve never met the mother,” said Lizzie.

  Cal threw up his hands. “How do you do battle with something like Summa?”

  “Resistance starts with a few brave souls meeting over coffee and cookies,” said Rosie, “and grows and grows. On Long Island, nearly the whole south coast is a national wildlife refuge thanks to a group of ordinary New Yorkers influencing one man.” She smiled. “Of course that one man was Theodore Roosevelt. Interesting to think that Roosevelt’s main legacy today, the thing that put him on Mount Rushmore with the three greats—the only thing in my opinion—is his conservation legacy, the national parks. Everything else is forgotten.”

  “If we pull this off, we’ll get someone to carve Eddie’s head into the Hollywood Hills,” said Cal.

  “Who’s Eddie?” said Rosie.

  “Eddie Mu
ll was my father,” said Maggie, looking at Lizzie, “our father. He made his fortune on oil and land, which is the money we used to start the foundation. He doesn’t deserve his head on the Hollywood Hills. He would not be with us today.”

  “But his money is,” said Lizzie to Rosie, “and that’s what matters. They were twin brothers, Eddie and Willie Mull. Willie was Cal’s father. Eddie was our father. They arrived in Los Angeles with the water.”

  “I want to make another point,” said Rosie. “Actually it is my main point. Our view at the Ballona Club is that we can’t stop Playa Vista from developing the airfield—hence, we shouldn’t even try. The airfield is already zoned for industry and has to go anyway because of its proximity to L.A. International. Our goal should be to protect everything west of that.”

  “I agree absolutely,” said Cal. “Everything west of that is the land Mull Oil sold to Hughes, half of which went to the county for the marina. The other half, south of the marina and west of the airfield is the land we want to protect. If we achieve that, we win.”

  “And, finally, we atone,” said Lizzie. “The oil wells are gone and the land restored.”

  Rosie went back to her notebook and extracted a letter. “Do you know anything about this fellow Morton?” she asked, passing the letter around. “That’s the signature on this letter from Summa requesting—actually ordering—us to stop our campaign to preserve Ballona. Morton claims Hughes supported Summa’s plans.”

  “Howard hated Summa,” said Maggie.

  “That’s not what they say,” said Rosie. “They think his will makes clear his agreement with Summa on Playa Vista.”

  “If they find a will that supports Summa,” said Maggie, “it is a forgery. I can testify to that. Howard had never even heard of Summa. I was the one who told him.”

  “Morton is lying,” said Lizzie, softly.

  “Who is he?” said Rosie.

  “You don’t know?” asked Cal.

  “How would she?” said Lizzie. “I don’t use the name Morton.” She looked to Rosie.

  “This whole story is a family story. Eddie Mull, our father, owned the land we’re talking about—all the land except Hughes Aircraft. When he died, it passed to Maggie and me and we sold it to Howard Hughes who gave us a letter stipulating that the land remain protected.”

  Lizzie stopped long enough to look at all of them, one by one, remembering the sting from her son’s slap, feeling her face reddening again. Was that possible?

  “Robinson Morton is my son, who now works for Summa. We don’t agree on this. Or on anything else to be honest.”

  Chapter 49

  “A Miss Dominique Martin on the line. Says it’s personal. Will you take it?”

  “Dominique Martin?” he said over the intercom. “I don’t know any—ah, yes, as a matter of fact, I do know a Dominique. Or did. Put her on.”

  “I’m not sure you remember me, Mr. Mull,” sounded a hesitant voice when he picked up. We met at Didi Heyward’s graduation party a few years ago, back when—well, you know, back then.”

  “I do, remember, Dominique, of course I do. You’re Robby’s friend.”

  “Robby, yes, Ram, I am Robby’s friend . . . at least . . . anyway, that’s what I’m calling about.”

  “Ah.”

  The line went silent.

  “Dominique?”

  “I wonder if I could talk to you.”

  “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

  “It’s just that, well, it’s rather personal. I wondered if we could meet.”

  What could possibly prompt Robby’s girlfriend to call him on a personal matter, he asked himself. Robby was devious, but probably not to that point. On the other hand, better not invite his girlfriend to his office with the Summa hearings coming up.

  “Where are you, Dominique?”

  “I’m at Union Station.”

  Union Station?How strange, he thought. He checked his watch. He had no lunch plans. “Are you going or coming?”

  Long hesitation. “I’m not sure.”

  Trouble in the voice. Should he do this? Family. No choice.

  “Do you know la Golondrina on Olvera Street?

  “I can find it.”

  “Just cross Alameda Street in front of the station, turn right at the plaza and follow Olvera to the restaurant. If you get lost, just ask. Everyone knows La Golondrina. It’s been there forever. I’ll meet you in half an hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She was as gorgeous as he remembered, though not quite so blooming. Her dark eyes fixed on you with a startling openness. An alluring girl, not joyful but easy to like, probably easy to love, serious, fragile, not someone to be frivolous with. She wore a gray worsted suit, of all things, well-tailored, far too proper for lunch on Olvera Street. Travel clothes. White blouse with a simple gold chain around her neck. No rings. Carried a small black purse. Feminine though not stylish. Dark hair pulled up in back. People watched her as she stood alone outside the restaurant. She looked exhausted but put on a pretty smile for him. They shook hands. He was moved by her without knowing why. Something in her of Angie, the young Angie, courage and vulnerability. What was this fragile flower doing with the brute who called himself Ram?

  The waiter led them to a table. He thought briefly of margaritas, but they ordered iced tea and a fajitas plate for two. The waiter put down salsa and a basket of chips. Still quiet, no mariachis in sight, thank heaven. She’d thanked him outside for coming, but hadn’t said much else. He smiled. He didn’t know what else to do. Despite seeing Robby professionally, he knew nothing of his private life. Robby was a mystery. So was Dominique.

  “Union Station?” he said. Again the shy, silent smile. “Checked your bags?”

  “Bag.” The iced tea came. She took a long sip, glancing at him over the rim. For some reason he was starving. They took their time at Golondrina, thus the chips and salsa. “The train’s not until two-thirty.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  How could she know when the train was leaving if she didn’t know where she was going? Something strange going on, but not coming out. Maybe the fajitas would help. He ate some chips and salsa, wondered again about margaritas. He didn’t want the iced tea. She was eating, too. Good sign, he thought. Hot salsa to burn out the truth.

  “I wonder if I should be doing this,” she said, hesitantly. “I was staring at the departure board, asking myself what train to take, and it struck me how silly it was to come to Union Station and not know where you’re going. I looked around at people dashing in every direction, everyone with a destination—north, south, east.” She tried a little smile. “Obviously you can’t go far west. I needed someone to talk to. I thought of you. Just looked up the Sierra Club in the book and here we are.”

  Lovely smile, but so sad. Odder and odder, he thought. Why couldn’t she talk to Robby? Or friends or relatives? How long had they been together? And no one to call but me who she’s met once in her life and that time at a party years ago. He decided not to bother her with questions. Let her tell it her own way. There was something moving in her sad manner.

  “Why you, you’re wondering, but who else? I couldn’t call Ram’s mother, not on something like this.”

  Like what, he wondered.

  “They don’t talk anyway. In fact . . .”

  She started a thought and abandoned it, taking a sip of iced tea instead. He waited.

  “Then I remembered how nice you were to me at Didi’s party. So sad about her, isn’t it? And then there’s the fact that you and Ram have been in contact, that you have influence with him. He doesn’t talk to his mother or dad anymore, but still talks to you.”

  He didn’t bother to say that the only reason Robby still talked to him was that they were antagonists in a long and difficult legal proceeding. As for i
nfluence, not a chance. She probably knew that anyway. Or did she? Did they talk to each other? He had no idea of her relationship to Robby. Apparently, they were still together. How long had it been? Surely someone would have heard if Robby had married. And there would be a ring, wouldn’t there?

  The fajitas came, a big plate of carne asada with vegetables and frijoles and side dishes of peppers and cheese and a smaller plate of tortillas covered in a linen napkin.

  “You first,” he said and watched her start filling and wrapping the tortilla. He could see she was hungry. When she’d finished, he started on his own plate.

  “It’s hard, Mr. Mull, hard for me to do this.”

  The eyes were brimmed, but tears were not yet falling.

  “It might be easier if you’d call me Cal.”

  She nodded. “You’re Ram’s kin, but also a stranger to me. It’s just that I had to tell someone. I couldn’t just get onto a train to nowhere without at least trying to talk to someone in the family.”

  Train to nowhere?

  “You were absolutely right, Dominique.”

  “You’ve probably guessed by now that I’m pregnant.”

  He looked quickly up. No, he hadn’t guessed, not at all, the thought never having crossed his mind. A woman might have guessed. He hadn’t. Pregnancy would explain the suit and jacket, but so would the train. It certainly didn’t show. The changes he’d noticed were in her face and demeanor, not her figure.

  She took a bite. He did the same. Golondrina supplied knives and forks but you don’t eat fajitas with knives and forks.

  “I guess that’s why I’m so hungry.”

  Silence fell as they ate. He had no idea what to say, the things coming to mind all ringing false. He obviously couldn’t tell her that everyone in the family was sick about Robby, that no one trusted him, not even his father, who’d made excuses for him until running out of excuses. She clearly had a reason for calling him beyond commiseration. Hungry or not, she ate delicately, carefully taking little bites, dabbing at her mouth. He remembered how Robby ate, ravenously, sloppily. What did she see in him? She looked up from time to time with her little smile, sad maybe, but there was determination in there, too. He liked that. After a while she stopped eating, wiped her hands gently and took a long drink of iced tea.