Laguna Heat

by T. Jefferson Parker

  Shephard pocketed the note and slipped out the back entrance of the station, watching—out of habit it seemed by now—for Daniel Pedroza loitering near the Mustang. But his car was unattended, and he was relieved as he pushed it into gear and backed from the shade of an olive tree into the fierce Laguna sun.

  Ten minutes later he drove into the parking lot of Moon Chevrolet and parked beside a new Camaro. The dealership owner was a portly man wearing a polka dot shirt with a collar so wide it looked like wings. He introduced himself as Dick Moon.

  “Lot of people think we named this place after the moon,” he said with a bright smile. “But Moon is me. Now, what can I get you into, young man?”

  Moon’s grin disappeared when Shephard expressed interest in an aging Cadillac with the plates 156 DSN. He waddled ahead of Shephard, leading them back to the sales office, where he consulted a logbook. Moon ran his fat finger down the column and shook his head.

  “Got no such car on the lot. We got a sixty-nine Valiant with those plates, no Caddy.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Shephard said.

  Moon bit the end off a cigar and pointed it behind him. “She’s round back,” he said. “Real cute little thing.”

  Around back, Shephard found the cute little thing slouched alone beside the trash container for the parts department. The paint was peeling as if from a severe sunburn, the windows were clouded with dust, one tire was flat, and the car listed heavily to port. Moon arrived behind him, announced by the aroma of cigar.

  “Not the car she used to be,” he confessed.

  But very interesting just the same, Shephard thought. Joe’s Cadillac might be in service after all. “Where are the plates?” he asked, studying the naked plate holder dangling from the front.

  “Stolen probably,” Moon said. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Shephard rounded the car and found the back plate gone, too. Pinched Datilla’s Caddy and swapped plates. Clean.

  “How long has it been here?”

  “Couple of months. Took it in trade, God knows why.” Moon puffed thoughtfully. “Hey, GM’s doing backflips to move these new Camaros. Car of the year. I’ll get you into one for peanuts and give you top dollar for the Ford. What can you go each month?”

  Shephard had knelt near the front of the Valiant, inspecting the license plate holder. “Oh, no thanks, Dick. Just looking today.”

  “Well, go ahead. And come back when I can get you into something you deserve.”

  Moon waddled away, trailing cigar smoke. Shephard tried the doors but found them locked. No wonder the Cadillac hadn’t shown up on Sacramento’s stolen list, he thought.

  When he turned to head back to the Mustang, the bells of St. Cecilia’s—whose towers rose just one block to the south—chimed a tuneful six o’clock. He stopped and listened, hearing the caller’s voice imprinted over them, taunting Hope Creeley through her answering machine. Two points for the 4800 block of South Coast Highway, he thought, and for a moment experienced the cool anxiety of standing somewhere he didn’t belong.

  From the sidewalk in front of Moon Chevrolet, Shephard could see two pay telephones, one beside the gay bar called Valentine’s, the other in front of a liquor store across the street.

  First he called Pavlik, to report the stolen plates to Sacramento. Then he called Dorothy Edmond again. After a half dozen rings, her whiskey voice answered in a husky hello. She spoke quietly and sincerely, apologizing for evading him earlier, explaining that certain Surfside personnel were given to listening in at the club switchboard.

  She insisted that they meet the next morning at eleven anywhere that served a decent Bloody Mary. They agreed on Kano’s, a fashionable retreat in Newport Beach, that opened early on Saturdays for brunch and had a good bar.

  FIFTEEN

  Diver’s Cove was dark by nine o’clock. Shephard picked his way down the concrete steps to the beach, which was foreshortened by high tide. He lit a cigarette and walked across the sand to the near side of the cove, where he sat on the hull of a beached catamaran. A light evening breeze tapped the halyard against the mast above him, ringing a pleasant tune that carried a short distance, then vanished. The rocks of the cove cut a silhouette against an indigo sky, while the ocean gathered and dispersed the lights of nearby houses. The moon had grown since he had last noticed it, perched above the tequila bottle held by Little Theodore, and now sat far offshore, spreading threads of wavering light into the water below.

  He felt giddy, nervous. How long since he had known that expectant apprehension? His insides fluttered, settled. There was a sense of velocity, too, something like the first back-straightening jolt of the Jota in low gear, something one-way and irrevocable. He imagined Jane Algernon asleep on her father’s couch, her legs tucked under the bright afghan. She said nothing about a swimsuit but he had stuffed one into the pocket of his jacket just in case. What if she swam naked and expected the same of him? His stomach went queasy as his mind filled with scenes of his last woman: the glum apologies, the strained second efforts, the final capitulation followed by heavy doses of guilt and whiskey. And the worst part was that the desire was there, but fouled, short-circuited.

  The hollow sound of wooden sandals on concrete echoed behind him. Shephard turned to see a figure in white descending the steps, then heard the thud of shoes hitting sand. He watched her stoop, pluck the shoes from the ground, and continue across the beach toward him, while her dress—he could see it was a dress now, white and loose—lifted in the onshore breeze. A large athletic bag hung from her shoulder. She stopped a few feet from him, backlit by the houses, one side of her face picking up the light from the moon. Shephard stood.

  “There are only two rules I have out here,” she said quietly. “One is no words, the other is no worries. Do those sound all right to you?” Behind her, a house light blinked off.

  “They sound easy,” he said.

  “Here,” she took his hand. “This way.”

  They paralleled the shore, moving north. Shephard stopped to take off his shoes and socks and roll up his cuffs. The water splashed warm against his ankles as they sloshed along the beach. Ahead of him he could see a tall outcropping of rocks in the near distance. When they got closer, a dark bird left the top with a heavy beating of wings. The waves, small and cylindrical, smacked sharply against the high-tide beach. Shephard thought about her rules. They seemed aptly chosen. Each time the brine swarmed around his feet and receded, he felt as if a measurable quantity of words and worries were being carried away by the sea. By the time they reached the rocks he seemed lighter, less bound to what was behind them. His heart pounded nervously.

  The rocks formed an archway. Shephard’s stomach fluttered again as they ducked into a darkened vault that was protected on three sides by rock and open at the top to the sky. Inside, it was quieter and warmer. He could hear the breeze whistling through the cracks, overtaken by the rhythm of waves.

  A wide angle of light opened the darkness around him. He watched as Jane pressed the flashlight into the sand and set her bag beside it. Without looking at him, she turned away and began to unbutton her dress.

  Shephard watched, dumbly rapt, as the dress slid from her back, revealing Jane Algernon’s wide and slightly muscled shoulders. A swimmer’s back, he thought, scalloped and lean, tapering to a narrow waist. Then, as the dress fell to her knees and she bent to step out of it, he studied her high, firm buttocks and strong thighs, which were sculpted flawlessly. Her legs were long and without waste. No bathing suits, he thought, as she wrapped a large towel around herself and turned to face him.

  For a brief moment Shephard felt that rare emotion, the opposite of déjà vu: not that he had been there before but that he would never be there again.

  Was it pleasure, invitation that crossed her face as she returned his stare in the dim light? Fear? He was aware of the moment as precious, inviolable, singular. It felt strange to be so sober, so acutely present. The ocean that rushed against the rocks was incons
equential and far away. She seemed to have gathered all his awareness into a single vector that, even without moving or speaking, she drew in toward herself.

  Shephard turned and undressed, feeling her eyes on him as surely as she had felt his. The light went out and she found his hand again, leading him out to the darkness. They waded carefully through the tidepools until they hit the sand, and by the time she was waist-deep, Jane had slipped under a wave. Shephard followed, the warm water stinging the cut on his head, his belly touching the smooth sand bottom. He kicked and stretched his hands out in front, feeling another wave surging overhead, pounding his feet as he went under. How long since he had been in the water? He counted the years but lost interest. Up again, he could see that the water was faintly luminescent, tinged blue-white by the moon. Jane broke into a crawl stroke ahead of him. The flutter of her kick made a sparkling trail behind her, but she was a quiet swimmer and moved through the water with an effortless, languorous rhythm.

  He kicked hard and pulled deeply to keep up with her, careful to leave a few meters between them. Past the waves he felt the bottom falling away and knew that even a few yards from shore the ocean was much the same as it was many miles out: strong, unfathomable, unforgiving of all that is not part of it. And just as the first lappings of the waves had seemed to draw little parts of him away with them, he could now feel larger portions leaving too. He recalled that he had been married once but wasn’t sure to whom. He believed that he rented an apartment somewhere in the town behind them but couldn’t quote an address. He knew that he was a cop on a murder case but couldn’t remember the specifics. He wondered why he had ever quit surfing. But the regret soon vanished. He didn’t know why and didn’t want to know. Was it possible to continue this way to Hawaii, or perhaps to an uninhabited tropical island where he and Jane could live on fish and fruit, procreate wildly, found a race? It seemed a possibility.

  Then, ahead of him, Jane Algernon’s face collected in the darkness and it was smiling.

  “Are you scared? The rocks are under us, not far,” she said. Shephard could feel the churning of her legs as she kicked to stay afloat. Her hair was slicked back and the bones in her face caught the moonlight.

  “No. Are you?”

  “I do this every night.” Her voice was a whisper, excited and conspiratorial. “This is as far away as you can get from yourself and still get back. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I feel it. I couldn’t have said it.”

  “It’s reductive. I’m Jane Algernon and you’re Tom Shephard. That’s all I know right now because compared with this ocean, nothing else matters. I know when I get back that everything will make sense again. Different sense, but still sense.” She lapped up a mouthful of water and sprayed it into the air. “Look. She’s our mother. She’s our great organizer.”

  “You broke your rules,” he said, moving closer.

  “They don’t apply out here. Nothing applies but what you are right now. What are you?” Her breath smelled as if it came from somewhere rich and clean.

  “Words or no words?”

  “Whatever it takes, detective.”

  The months of inertia changed to months of hunger as Shephard reached out and placed his hands on Jane Algernon’s face. He could feel her legs and arms straining as he eased her still closer, close enough to taste the warmth of her breath. His legs pumped the water. Inside him he felt a sweet riot breaking out, birds on the wing, electric, agitated, nerve-spun. Her mouth was warm and the water running around it was cool and salty. He kissed it, then across her cheek and down her neck—she said something but he didn’t hear what—until he dropped his hands to her waist and lifted slightly, bringing her breasts high enough to take one nipple between his lips as gently as if it were a drop of water. She pressed against him, legs still lunging, arms falling to his buttocks then around, and Shephard realized his strength as she took him in her hands, tenderly, like a treasure consigned to her care. Their legs mingled, locked, released; He closed his eyes and found her mouth again; he was streaking through space. His hand fell to her legs and she eased them apart, his fingers finding warmth and slick abundance, a woman’s quiet affirmation that even the ocean could make no less of. Shephard could feel it around his fingers, his palm, as if it were draining, spilling in a rush. And while he pushed inside her she climbed him, arms around his neck, the bottoms of her thighs around his ribs, her warmth breaking away from his hand and colliding with his stomach, hot where the cool water had been. He churned harder to support them both, guiding her buttocks down, around him, then moving inside her, a flawless connection that began tentatively and went deeper while she kissed his mouth, nose, ears, eyes. She whimpered with each snap of his legs and he hoped that he would be strong enough. Moving forward, he found a rock and braced his feet against its rough edge. She leaned back and fanned her arms in the water. Her torso shone pale and slick in the moonlight and Shephard could see her hair floating around her head. He brought her harder against him.

  She cried out as the first voltage erupted inside her. He could feel it, like electricity, quick and tense. Then another, and she groaned and drew herself back up to him, arms locked around his neck as another surge broke inside. Shephard slowed, resting as they sank down, then pushed off the rock for a heave upward. She clutched his flanks with her thighs. They strained together, until Jane’s legs stiffened, rigid around him. He was aware of her shrieking, of his own rapid breathing, of the weakening of his legs. But the first stirrings of his own release brought their own energy, and while she clung to his body with ebbing strength he worked the last of his power, slowing, then feeling everything inside him moving to her. The frenzied birds took flight, and Shephard lifted his face skyward as if to watch them go, as a rich release shuddered out of him and seemed to last for hours while she tightened and drew it out, and out, and out still more, so that when it ended Shephard thought it was still going out of him and maybe always would be.

  Floating. Face to the stars on a bed of ocean. Beside him a woman’s hair, blending with his own. Her arms working the water slowly, her breath still rapid but descending. Shephard was aware of his own heartbeat, magnified by the water, a fast thudding, a precise mechanism. Funny how the stars multiply the longer you stare, he thought. A dozen, two dozen, then a thousand pinpoints in the fabric of night. Then Jane asking if he saw the Big Dipper—yes—and a thousand other scenes nobody has named. And while her breathing slowed still more she asked him to swim another hundred yards out or so, to the Inside Indicator, a rock, her goal on nights such as this.

  They breaststroked slowly to the Indicator, whose side was cold and sharp under Shephard’s fingers as he reached out to steady himself. “The real lovers go to the Outside Indicator,” she said. “We may go there some night.” Both resting on the rock, they kissed again, but long and slow this time, a kiss only for the enjoyment of kissing. Then she slipped down and away and disappeared under the water until she surfaced a few yards closer toward shore, stroking evenly for the cove.

  Exhausted, he followed.

  Back in the cave they dried—she had brought two towels—and faced each other as they dressed. From her bag she brought a small Thermos and two cups, which she filled with coffee that was still steaming. She packed the flashlight last and they walked unsteadily back down the beach, and up the concrete steps to the sidewalk.

  “Back to the real world,” he said. But it seemed intensified, hyper-real. He heard the faint patter of a moth in the lamplight above them, watched a spray of headlights from an oncoming car, turned back to Jane Algernon, whose face was beautiful and calm. “Let’s go to the hotel. Have a drink, We missed the sunset but we can see the moon.”

  “No, Tom. But thank you. Be my friend. I need time. Please.”

  Shephard considered her words, her face, the beauty of her body. And it seemed that for what she had offered, she was asking little in return.

  She came close to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing his mouth clo
se for a kiss. She rested her head on his chest for a long moment and when she turned her face to him he saw that she was crying.

  Then she was moving down the sidewalk, the sound of wooden sandals on concrete, the moth above her head tracing halos of light in the beam of the street lamp.

  SIXTEEN

  Shephard got Marla Collins’s number from the operator, took his telephone to the center of the floor, and sat down. He was chilled and sandy, but the salt felt rough and good on his skin. Cal took an interest in the salt, licking his elbow until Shephard spilled him over for a belly scratch. Cal quivered a hind leg as if he were doing it himself. Marla Collins sounded less businesslike than she did at South Coast Investigators, her voice slurred and nearly obliterated by loud music.

  “Marla, this is Randy Cox. I met you at work.…”

  “Randy Cox, you’re as phony as a flocked Christmas tree,” she said without humor.

  “I’m not much on flocked trees myself. I suppose Bruce blew my cover. I’m Tom Shephard, Laguna cops.”

  “Well, I’m still just plain old Marla, so what do you want?”

  “You don’t sound too happy.”

  “It’s Friday night and I’m having a party. Except I didn’t invite anybody. The wine is gone and the record skips. Other than that I’m happier than hell. Tommy, dear, excuse me while I pour a vodka.” The line banged at the other end and Shephard heard the last of a Pretenders song before she picked up the receiver again. “Don’t mean to pout. Now, what do you want from Marla Collins?”

  “I want to know who Bruce Harmon works for. Any and all clients over the last two months.” The record ended and Shephard heard ice clinking in a glass.

  “Bruce wasn’t too happy when you left that day.”