Silicon Beach

by Davis MacDonald

  “I remember, Judge. There was going to be another fifty for me if I came up with something. Right?”

  “I think that was our deal.”

  Marty lowered his voice now to a whisper.

  “I hear they sometimes hang out during the day in Promenade Park. That’s where they take on business I think. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Marty pinned the Judge with his eyes, demanding anonymity.

  “It’s just between us.”

  “You’d best be careful pops. They aren’t guys to mess with. They’d as soon kill you as look at you.”

  The Judge smiled. Age was all so… relative. He wondered if Katy thought of him as ‘pops’.

  He discretely got a fifty dollar bill out of his pocket, crumpled it up into a ball, palmed it, and then gave Marty the golden hand shake as he got up from the bench. He walked thirty yards, then looked back. Marty was still sitting on the bench, looking after him. Looking worried.

  The Judge decided he would call a case worker he knew and see if some help and direction could be provided for Marty and his mom. Maybe a job and a shelter dwelling. Perhaps a different school where Marty could start fresh.

  CHAPTER 42

  Noon Tuesday

  The Judge retrieved his car and headed for Palisades Park. The Park was a stretch of lawn and trees paralleling the edge of the bluff in downtown Santa Monica. It looked over the Pacific Coast Highway, the beach, and out across the Santa Monica bay to the Pacific. The jewel in the city’s crown. At any time of day you could find joggers, lovers, bicyclists, picnicking tourists with make-shift lunches from the shops across the street on Ocean Avenue, and of course the homeless, scattered here and there, sharing the green space.

  Locals and tourists alike ignored the homeless. As if they weren’t supposed to exist in this people’s park for the affluent. They focused on the sea view, the gardens and each other. At one point the homeless had become so numerous the city fathers shut Palisades Park down. Cordoning it off to everyone. There was an uproar and city hall relented, opening the park again.

  But they’d first meanly spiked or ridged every surface, bench, concrete planter, and bus stop shelter they could. There was no clean surface above ground where one could stretch out and sleep. It had become a standup or sit down park. No longer a lay down park unless you brought your own plastic sheet, blanket or cardboard and stretched it out on the turf. Many did.

  The Judge reached the Park and made his way casually through the light throng. He was just one more office worker from across the street, released from his drudgery for lunch. He looked to be meandering up the length of the Park, from its southern tip where Colorado Avenue led down over a bridge on to the Santa Monica Pier, northward parallel to Ocean Avenue for some thirteen city blocks, ending in Point Inspiration to the north. Paying attention to no one, lost in thought. Or so it seemed. But he was monitoring everyone, looking for someone who might resemble one of the gang members.

  It took a good hour to walk up to the northern tip of the park and back twice. He saw no one of interest. He was about to give up when, two-thirds of the way back down the park on his second trip, opposite Wilshire Boulevard, he spotted a young man sitting on the ground with his back against a tree, motionless, smoking, staring out at the sea. He hadn’t been there before. Early-twenties and white. His scruffy khakis, faded padded coat, shaggy matted hair and unshaven face, marked him as homeless.

  But homeless, or only playing as such, he was the man that had attacked the Judge on the beach. It gave the Judge bitter satisfaction to note his swollen nose, a small piece of surgical tape holding things together across the bridge. The Judge unconsciously touched his own arm where a swath of bandage under his shirt sleeve kept stitches from unraveling. Marty had said this guy’s name was Arty.

  The Judge decided to watch a bit. He retreated to a large elm and pretended to be texting on his cell phone. He had an angled side view of the young man sixty feet away.

  Nothing happened for about thirty minutes except for the appearance of a column of ants interested in scraps. Their conga line swerved around the Judge’s feet, each insect hauling bits twice their size to some ant haven on the other side of the Judge’s tree.

  Arty suddenly turned his attention to his right, then raised his right hand slightly from his lap, making a reverse victory sign, his thumb tucked into his palm, his fingers pointed down.

  Slowly walking along the path that fronted the bluff from the north came a young black man, also in homeless garb and markings, matted long hair, dirty face. Without appearing to, his head bobbed in an arc, carefully surveying a hundred and eighty degrees around him. He brought his hand down flat against his thigh as he passed, making a similar upside down victory sign, his thumb tucked into his palm.

  Arty let the black guy pass, then casually got up and sauntered after him, keeping thirty feet behind, heading south along the bluff path. His head was on a swivel now too, surveying his surroundings. Stopping periodically to glance over his shoulder. Despite their markings they no longer looked homeless. There was too much purpose in their walk. What name had Marty used for the black guy? ‘Juno’. This guy must be Juno.

  The Judge left his tree and walked south across the grass parallel to them and the bluff path, moving around homeless here and there sprawled in the sun and small packets of tourists spreading out lunches on the grass. The Judge deliberately wobbled his path, stopping now and again to admire the views. Then speeded his step to catchup distance.

  Juno cut away from the cliff path and across the lawn to the signal at Santa Monica Boulevard. He pushed the cross walk button as Arty caught up. Neither spoke or acknowledged the other.

  When the walk signal flashed green they quickly crossed in single file. Still no acknowledgment of the other’s presence. The Judge hustled and leaped off the curb as the signal turned to a flashing red hand, burying himself in the cluster of a Filipino family who also believed in ignoring lights. He must have stood out like a sore thumb, towering as he did above the small statured family. But neither of his quarry looked back now.

  He fell back again after stepping on to the curb, while they picked up their pace, continuing up Santa Monica Boulevard alongside the corner office building, then right into the alley behind the building. He stopped at the edge of the alley and peered around in time to see them disappearing down the ramp to the underground parking beneath the building.

  He waited a minute, moved down the alley to the parking ramp, and then cautiously down the ramp. The parking facility was dirty, bits of papers and debris scattered, and the light was bad, several ceiling bulbs burned out. He could smell the fumes of gas, rubber, and rotting food from dumpsters at the top of the ramp. The air was hot and sticky from the flow of air conditioning exhaust into the garage space. He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck. There was the low hum of coolers, and once a car pulled past as he slowly made his way down one layer of parking after another, trudging as though he’d forgotten where he’d parked.

  He reached the bottom, five levels down from the ally and came up short against a blank wall. No young men. Only graffiti. He turned and began his way back up, looking more carefully between cars. Reaching the 4th floor down from the top, he heard an angry voice. Quickly extinguished. Moving in that direction he spotted a small door set into the side wall, opened a crack for air, on the fourth level. As he got closer he heard a murmur of voices inside. He supposed it was the stairwell to the building above.

  He ducked behind a car on the opposite wall from the door and waited. Five minutes later a young man, looking to be homeless, Asian, mid-twenties, came out, looked around carefully without appearing to do so, then stepped back in behind the door.

  The Judge reached into his sport coat and fished for a card he knew was there: Officer Saunders. Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. The cop that made so much fun of his claim it was a ‘mixed’ ethnic gang that attacked him. Well Officer Saunders could damn well see for himself
.

  He dialed the card’s direct line and Saunders picked up. Apparently he was on duty. Good.

  The Judge explained his situation. How he had spotted Arty, with his broken nose. How he was positive it was the guy who had attacked him. How he followed the two young men to this parking garage and at least three of them were here. Meeting. And they were indeed a mixed lot. He’d seen Arty, the white guy, Juno, the black guy, and now an Asian. He said nothing about Marty and the tip that led him here.

  Saunders was attentive. He grasped the situation immediately.

  “What level are you on, Judge?”

  “Level four.”

  “Okay, don’t move. Stay put. Get behind a parked car or something. I’ll have three cruisers there inside fifteen minutes. And be careful. Don’t let yourself be seen.”

  The Judge hunkered down behind a black Mercedes to wait.

  A minute later Arty came out of the stairwell with another young man. A Latino. They stopped just outside the door and one of them pulled a pack of cigarettes. They both lit up. They spoke in a low murmur. The Judge couldn’t make out their words. The Latino got a brief call on his cell phone, then quickly went back into the stairwell, motioning Arty to follow. A minute later the Latino came back out again, turned, and sauntered up the ramp to the beginning of the next level, three floors down from the ally. He leaned against the wall there. A lookout… or a guard? The Judge was now sealed in.

  Arty, Juno and the Asian came out next, apparently having settled their business. The three walked out into the middle of the parking lane. Then Arty strolled out toward the Mercedes the Judge was sheltered behind. Christ, was he hiding behind Arty’s car?

  Juno headed in the opposite direction, and the Asian headed toward the back of the lot. Apparently they didn’t even park their cars together.

  The Judge slid silently out of his jacket, prepared to break Arty’s nose for him again. But then there was a low squeal of tires. A private security patrol car slowly came down the ramp, making its rounds floor to floor, coming to inspect the fourth level next.

  The Latino on the third level melted away. The three gang members on the Judge’s floor moved briskly back to the shelter of the stairwell and closed the door, preferring not to be seen. Private security no doubt took a dim view of homeless sheltering in their garage.

  The Judge moved too. He slipped out from behind the Mercedes and rapidly made his way up a level, to the third floor, nodding at the security patrol officer as the security car came down the ramp. One dumpy old man inside, driving slowly. Likely no weapon. But he’d have a radio. Still, the police were already called and on the way.

  The Judge moved further, to the second level, where he squatted down behind a red Camaro.

  Two minutes later, the Latino walked up to the second level, cautiously looked around, and then walk up to the first level. Exactly two minutes later Arty walked past the Judge’s position and up to the first level. Where in the hell was Saunders and his cruisers?

  Two minutes later, Juno walked past. And two minutes later the Asian walked past. Their staged departures were timed like a damn ballet. In the space of eight minutes the quarry had fled.

  The Judge stood up, his knees stiff and achy from squatting. Complaining all the way as he moved to an elevator he spotted in the center of the floor. It whisked him up to the building lobby. The Judge sped through a service door which took him down a long corridor to a door with a window in it looking out on the loading dock on the back alley. He peeked out and watched the Asian emerge from the parking ramp into the alley.

  The Asian lingered there, stopping to roll himself a cigarette, dumping in material from a small leather pouch he kept in his pocket.

  As he lit up a disreputable looking SUV pulled into the alley. Dark green, like a telephone truck, it had multiple dings and dents, only partially covered by a layer of mud and dust that served as a second skin. The other three men were in the truck. It stopped so the Asian could climb in the back.

  The Judge fumed at himself for not calling the police earlier. He could do nothing now. He was hardly up to making a citizen’s arrest of four young men in prime condition, likely still with knives. The Judge winced at this thought, putting his hand to his arm, which was throbbing.

  As the van pulled slowly away up the alley the Judge hopped out through the door and got its license plate.

  The Judge was tired now. Adrenalin leaving him. He went back to the loading dock and sat down on its edge, choosing not to think what the seat of his pants would look like from the grease and dirt there. Five minutes later, three Santa Monica cruisers pulled into the alley in a hurry. Four officers jumped out.

  The Judge waved them over to where he sat on his grease spot and told them his tale of woe. As he got up he wondered how he would explain this new pants travesty to Katy. His pants had been lost, ripped, and now greased. It wasn’t a good month for pants. It felt like every time he turned around his ass was hanging out.

  CHAPTER 43

  4:30 PM Tuesday

  The Judge picked up his cell and dialed Barbara. She answered on the first ring again.

  “Hi Judgie. What’s up?”

  “Barbara, did Carl have a silent partner for his new technology? Perhaps a fellow inventor working on it with him, or a financier, or a mentor who originally came up with the idea?”

  “Gosh, Judge, you’re all business today. Can’t we pretend just for a minute this is a social call?”

  “Sorry, Barbara. But I really need your help here.”

  “I think there was a partner. I don’t know who he was. But somewhere along the line he and Carl had a falling out.”

  “You said ‘he’. Was it a guy?”

  “I guess I don’t know Judge.”

  “Might it have been one of Carl’s other lovers?”

  “Carl didn’t have any other lovers once I came along, Judge. He had flirtations occasionally, but they didn’t amount to anything. No one could satisfy Carl like I could. You remember about that, right Judge?” Barbara giggled.

  “Yes, well, ah… did you know Carl had a gay lover?”

  “You’re good, Judge. How’d you find out about that?”

  “I work at it Barbs. Carl told you about it?”

  “Just a little, Judge. I was shocked at first. But Carl said it was only a flirtation. He had no real feelings for the guy. Just experimenting a little. I guess the poor man felt jilted pretty bad when Carl refused to return his calls. Went off the deep end, or so Carl said.”

  “Do you know who the guy was?”

  “No. Carl never gave me a name."

  “You think the guy was angry enough to attack Carl in that alley? To kill him?”

  “Oh Judge.” Barbara was going into a wail again. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Why would anyone want to do that to poor Carl?”

  “Okay, Barbs. Take a deep breath. Now another. That’s better. What did you think about Carl’s gay lover when he told you? Did it make you feel awkward? Uncertain Carl was the person for you? Perhaps you thought you could reform him?”

  Barbara blew her nose, forcing the Judge to yank his cell away from his ear.

  “I was glad Carl told me. It showed trust on his part. I wanted him to be able to share anything with me. And then when he explained how it was just a flirtation, I decided ‘live and let live’. We were having a wonderful time. Carl was going to marry me. I knew, the way a woman does, that I could keep him satisfied. He wouldn’t be dabbling around anymore with gays or anyone else. He wouldn’t have the energy. You know, Judge. You remember.”

  “Do you think Carl’s gay lover might also have been his partner in his technology?”

  “I don’t know, Judge.”

  “Is there anyone else you can think of who might know who Carl’s business partner is, or was?”

  “Maybe his Ex.”

  “Alright, Barbara, thanks for the help.”

  “You don’t get off that easily, Judge. You owe me a dinner now, an
d soon.”

  “You mean you want to come over and have dinner with me and Katy, Barbara?”

  “Hell no. You know what I mean. You’re going to get tired of this child, Judge. You’ll see. Just remember my door’s always open for you… and the rest of me too!”

  The Judge smiled and said goodbye.

  He dialed Yana, Carl’s ex-wife, next, and asked if they could talk a bit more.

  “Of course, Judge. In fact you’re the very man I’ve been thinking about. Let’s meet at The Penthouse at the Huntley Hotel in 45 minutes. As long as you’re buying.”

  She sounded a lot warmer than last time they’d met. The Judge wondered what had changed. He busied himself with some client work, and twenty minutes later slid out to meet Yana.

  The Penthouse, perched 18 stories above Santa Monica, provided stunning 360-degree views through a sweeping wall of windows from the Malibu beach and cliffs to the bright lights of Hollywood. The Judge lodged himself in an intimate corner table with the Pacific spread at his back, and ordered a martini, glad to be away from his office and almost through for the day.

  Yana arrived five minutes later, creating a physical stir in the air with her entrance, tall, beautiful, feline, turning the heads of the three male patrons on bar stools at the circular bar and the two male waiters working the tables. The Judge stood as she approached. Perhaps to get a better look himself.

  She was dressed all in white, offsetting her short dark hair and vivid ruby lipstick. She wore a sort of Marilyn Monroe dress whose top was two pieces slung around her neck, leaving a long décolletage and allowing her breasts to swing pendulum fashion as she moved. It was tight at her small waist, and short and pleated at the bottom, exposing long legs over spiked white heels. Simple, elegant, and WOW!