by Steve Gannon
Kane smiled, struck by the thought that if he hadn’t thrown his annual party that summer, hundreds would have shown up anyway, especially as over the years invitations had become superfluous. As if reading his mind, Travis asked, “How many people do you think are coming, Dad?”
Turning, Kane regarded his children, who stood lined up on the deck awaiting their assignments. “Good question,” he said, scratching his head. “A lot of guys from the force will show up. And your mom’s invited all her music cronies, so they’ll be mincing their way on down, too. Then there’s everybody we know on the beach and any friends you kids might have invited. Should be around two-fifty, maybe three hundred.”
“Better make that closer to four, Pop,” Allison quipped. “I asked over a hundred of my closest admirers to attend.”
Tommy grinned. “Ali, if every one of your admirers showed up, it wouldn’t increase the attendance by, oh, let’s say—”
“Watch it, Romeo,” Allison interrupted. “How many of your jock buddies are coming?”
Tommy shrugged. “Fifteen, maybe twenty.”
“You understand I’m not asking their IQ’s, right?”
“You’d better back off, Tom,” advised Travis. “You’re out of your league here.”
“Enough yapping,” said Kane. “Let’s get to work. Tom, the Porta Potti folks are dropping off an outdoor crapper around nine-thirty. Move the cars from in front of the house to make room. There’s a white Tahoe across the street. Park ’em behind that. And put some sawhorses out so no one takes the spot in the meantime.”
All private homes in Malibu employed private septic systems for waste disposal, and although the Kanes’ plumbing was satisfactory on a day-to-day basis, experience had proved it woefully inadequate when it came to handling several hundred beer-guzzling guests.
“Move the cars,” said Tommy, snapping to attention and shooting Kane a crisp salute. “Yes, sir! Aye, aye, sir!”
Ignoring his oldest son’s cheerful posturing, Kane glanced at a huge mound of scrap lumber and driftwood the children had piled near the seawall during the preceding weeks. “When you’re done, get back down here and help Travis, who’s going to be starting on the bonfire. Right, Travis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You check the tide tables?”
“High tide’s peaking at 5.8 feet around nine this morning. Low tide is in the fours later tonight. Should be plenty of beach.”
“Good. Start moving the firewood down, but don’t set it up till the water’s on the way out. Dig a shallow pit downwind of the fireworks area, then stack the wood like a tepee.”
“I know, Dad. Just like we do every year.”
“Just checking. Allison, you and Nate are on beach detail. The tide has washed up a lot of junk, not to mention the minefield of dog squeeze that’s been collecting the past few days. Start raking, rookies,” Kane ordered. “My buddy Walt Sullivan and his crew are going to be here soon, and I don’t want them stepping in it,” he added, referring to a former LAPD demolitions expert who had founded a fireworks company after retiring from the force. For the past seven years Wally had provided a professional show to top off Kane’s annual party—whenever possible, as they were this year, keeping expenses down by doing the fireworks shoot on the third instead of the fourth.
“Aw, Dad,” said Nate.
“No complaining. The beach has to be clean by the time they start digging the trenches for the mortars. After that you can both help your mom set up the food tables.”
“I’m always on poop patrol,” said Nate.
“That should tell you something, kid,” Kane replied. “Now quit bellyaching and get to it. Oh, one more thing. Tom, after breakfast you and Trav take the Suburban to the liquor store and pick up the beer kegs. I have two on order—Michelob and Heineken. Not those little suckers, either. This time we’re getting the big ones. If Pete gives you any trouble about your age, have him give me a call. And don’t forget pumps, tubs, and ice. I want them set up in the shade and cooled down early so they’re not all foam when we crack them.” Kane paused, mentally ticking off his list of preparations. “Am I leaving anything out?”
Allison was quick to respond, posing the subversive question that had occurred to all the children. “Yeah, Pop. You forgot to mention what you plan on doing while all us poor kids are working our butts off.”
“Yeah, Dad,” the others chimed in, emboldened by Allison’s query and caught up in her seditious spirit of rebellion.
“That question hurts me deeply,” Kane observed with an imperious chuckle. “Fortunately, it’s also the kind of question that’s liable to hurt you kids a lot more than me. We have a lot to do. Move it!”
As it turned out, Kane had plenty to do, too. Wally Sullivan, a short, powerfully built man with a walrus mustache and close-cropped hair, arrived around ten a.m. Two younger men accompanied him. All three wore white T-shirts with logos depicting multicolored star bursts and the words “Astro Pyrotechnics” emblazoned in fiery red letters beneath. Following a spate of backslapping and good-natured insults, Kane conferred with Wally regarding the height of the evening tide and the location of the mortar trenches in relation to the bonfire—assuring him the blaze wouldn’t be set until after the display. He then reviewed the fireworks program for the evening, making several suggestions concerning the grand finale.
When it came to lighting the sky, Wally knew how to please an audience. In years past the former LAPD demolitions expert had put on breathtaking shows in front of Kane’s house that rivaled even the public exhibitions at the Santa Monica Pier and the Jonathan Club, for in choreographing his displays, Wally always stuck to one simple rule: no dark sky. Kane learned that, along with the standard repertory, this year Wally had included a number of new shells recently available from China and Taiwan, and the show promised to be a knockout.
It took most of the afternoon to set up the shoot. Kane roped off the area, helped the pyrotechnic crew carry their equipment down from the street, and assisted in digging trenches and setting pipes—burying the mortars in the sand with only a foot or two projecting above the surface. When they’d finished, the beach bristled with a thicket of metal tubes pointing skyward, poised and ready for the evening’s celebration. With the exception of the finale shots, which had to be preset to allow for rapid firing, all fireworks remained stored in the shade, locked in a stout metal container marked “Explosives.”
Shortly after three o’clock Bill Flood, the fire marshal, showed up, joining a considerable crowd of early party arrivals who had already drifted in. Astro Pyrotechnics had applied for a fireworks permit months before, with Kane putting in for the bonfire at the same time, and a preshoot inspection was a requisite part of the process.
“Bill, it’s about time you brought the family,” said Kane approvingly, noticing the fireman had his wife and two kids in tow.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the burly man replied sheepishly.
“Mind? Hell, no,” said Kane. “I’ve been telling you for years to bring down the better half. I’m Dan Kane,” he added, shaking hands with a dark-haired woman standing beside the fire marshal. “There’s food on the tables and plenty more on the way. We’ve also got beer kegs tapped, wine on ice, and soft drinks for the kids in the coolers over by the steps.”
The woman smiled. “Thanks. Anything I can do to help?”
“No, just make yourself at home. My wife Kate’s upstairs in the kitchen right now, but she’ll be down shortly. I know she’ll want to meet you.” Then Kane shifted gears, sternly regarding two small boys standing behind their mother. Both wore baggy swimming trunks that extended well below their knees and were carrying swim fins and Boogie boards—small foam kickboards used for bodysurfing. “Surfers, huh?” said Kane. “You kids aren’t planning on drowning in front of my house, are you? A couple of deaths this early in the day might throw a crimp in the party.”
“No, sir,” the older boy replied seriously.
Kane grinned. �
��Good. Make sure that you don’t.” Then, turning back to the marshal, “Bill, what do you say we get the inspection done and see about finding you a beer?”
“Sounds good to me.”
As his wife and children made their way toward the food tables, the fireman accompanied Kane to the roped-off area, noting the placement and direction of the mortars, the heavy metal explosive box in the shade by the wall, and the huge tepee of scrap lumber and driftwood that Travis and Tommy had erected thirty yards distant. “Sullivan doing your shoot, as usual?” Bill asked.
“Couldn’t afford it otherwise. I don’t know what I’m going to do when he finally blows himself up.”
“Go back to sparklers.” Bill glanced doubtfully at the unlit bonfire, where Tommy, who had made one last scavenging expedition down the beach, was loading on a final layer of driftwood. “You don’t plan on lighting that till after the show, right?”
“Actually, I thought I would. See whether we can get everything to go off at once.”
“In that case, I’m definitely gonna need something to drink. Where’d you say those kegs were?”
“Follow the crowd, amigo,” said Kane, pointing toward the deck. “Follow the crowd.”
Upstairs, Travis stood at the kitchen window watching Tommy put the finishing touches on the bonfire. Closer in he saw his father talking with another man he recognized from years past as the fire marshal. Kane pointed toward the lower deck, just outside the beach-level music room. Travis noticed that his father looked relaxed, expansive, already immersed in the convivial good cheer he always exuded at social functions.
“Let’s go, Trav. Practice time. You have less than an hour before people start arriving.”
With a sigh of exasperation, Travis turned and regarded his mother. “An hour before people start arriving? Have you looked outside recently? Folks are already arriving.”
“Oh?” said Catheryn, moving to the window.
“There have to be at least forty people already out there, and more on the way. Tell you what—I’ll put in some extra time tomorrow, okay?”
“All right, but see that you do,” Catheryn relented. “We’ll be cleaning up after this one for a month,” she added, surprised by the number of guests who had already descended the outside stairway to the beach.
“You’ve got that right. Did you invite anyone?”
Catheryn smiled. “Of course. I need someone to talk with besides your dad’s beer-guzzling buddies. I asked several friends from the Philharmonic, my entire chamber group, and just about everybody I know at SC.”
“Petrinski?”
“Uh-huh. He said he would try to attend.” Catheryn regarded Travis curiously. “I’m surprised you didn’t invite him.”
“I forgot,” Travis lied.
Puzzled, Catheryn was about to say something more when Adele Washington entered the kitchen, her brightly colored maternity dress billowing around her. “Hi, you two,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind my coming in the front door, but I wasn’t sure I could make it down the outside stairs.”
“Of course not,” said Catheryn, smiling at her cellist friend. “It’s mostly Dan’s associates I try to keep outdoors.”
“Hi, Adele,” said Travis, taking her hand. “You look great.”
“Thanks, Trav,” said Adele, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You must be so proud of your mom.”
“Uh, sure I am,” said Travis. He saw Catheryn shoot her friend a sharp look, a warning Adele completely missed in her enthusiasm.
“Well, I think it’s just fantastic,” Adele went on, giving Catheryn a hug.
At that moment Kane bolted up the stairs from the beach. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, poking his head into the kitchen. “You gals want me to come back, or can I get in on the action?”
“Dan! You’re looking uglier than ever,” said Adele, a smile lighting her face.
“And you’re lookin’ sexier than ever, sugar,” Kane countered. “Damn, being pregnant must agree with you. Did you bring that worthless husband of yours?”
“Pat had to work. He sends his regrets.”
“Well, I guarantee you’re not gonna be lonely.” Then, to Catheryn, “Time to drag yourself down to the beach, honeybunch. There’s a party starting up out there.”
“We’ll be down in a sec, Dan,” Adele promised. “I just thought I’d congratulate your talented wife on her victory first.”
“What victory?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“I haven’t heard about any victory.”
All eyes turned to Catheryn. She hesitated. Then, staring defiantly at Kane, she said, “I got the position with the Philharmonic. They needed an answer right away. I told them I would do it.”
“That’s so great, Mom!” exclaimed Travis. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks, Trav,” said Catheryn, carefully studying Kane’s reaction. “I was planning to announce it later as part of the celebration.”
Kane frowned. “You were going to announce it, huh? I thought we were going to talk about it before you made any decision. What happened to that?”
When Catheryn didn’t answer, Adele jumped in. “Dan, this is a real honor for Kate. I don’t think you realize—”
“What I realize is that my wife’s been keeping secrets from me.”
“Come on, Dad,” chided Travis. “It’s just for a little while. Mom deserves this.”
“Shut the hell up, kid. This is none of your business.”
“That’s right. This is between your father and me,” said Catheryn, taking Kane’s hand. “Look, I really want this,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk it over with you before accepting, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. The children have already said they would help, and I’m doing it. That’s all there is to it.”
“Damn it, Kate …”
Forcing a smile, Adele linked her arm through Kane’s and finessed him toward the door. “Let’s go, Dan. As you said, there’s a party starting up outside. Let’s go join it.”
Kane allowed himself to be led out. He glanced back when he reached the stairs. “This isn’t over, Kate,” he said.
“It never is,” said Catheryn softly.
Kane stepped outside with Adele, discovering that a host of additional guests had arrived, most carrying food. Glancing across the deck, he noticed that more were on the way, with a steady river of people now flowing down the side of the house to the beach below. Swept up in the social deluge, Kane and Adele were soon washed into the center of the throng, caught like driftwood in the turbulence of a mountain stream.
Deciding to put off thinking about Catheryn’s unsettling news until after the party, Kane excused himself from Adele, who by then had been joined by several other members of the Philharmonic, and bulled his way down-current, navigating through a logjam of celebrants farther on. Upon arriving at a small eddy in the lee of the beer kegs, he found Deluca and Banowski elbowing for position under the Heineken tap. Ignoring complaints rising on all sides, Banowski had his cup tipped at a shallow angle under a barely dribbling spigot, tediously attempting to avoid a foamy head.
“Great party, Kane. Kinda reminds me of my college days,” noted Deluca, spilling half of Banowski’s beer as he impatiently smashed his own cup under the nozzle.
Banowski stared at his crushed and now-leaking cup, then glowered at Deluca. “You mean your high-school car-club days, you dumb wop,” he said. “Closest you’ve ever come to higher education is watchin’ public television.”
“That’s more than you can claim,” Deluca retorted, turning the spigot on full and quickly filling his cup with foam. “Your old lady took the TV in the divorce, and you still haven’t bought another one, have you?”
“Haven’t had time,” Banowski answered morosely. Then, turning to Kane, “What kinda beer is this, anyway? Miller extra foamy?”
Kane looked with disgust at the frothy brew sputtering from the tap. “Which one of you muscle-bound bozos overp
umped this thing?” he asked. Deluca and Banowski both looked away, guilt written on their faces. “Well, not to worry,” Kane continued, grabbing a large plastic pitcher from beside the ice bucket. He held it under the tap and drew several quarts of the amber liquid before foam poured over the top.
“Ah, the ability to use tools. Separates men from the apes,” said Deluca, attempting to strike a philosophic pose.
“Not true—especially not in your case,” Banowski chortled. “I’ve seen the women you go out with.”
“Any port in a storm,” countered Deluca. “What do you like, Banowski? Young boys?”
Kane pulled the dripping container from under the tap. “Do you two ever shut up?” he asked, shaking his head. “I swear, you’re worse than my kids. Come on, let’s move out of the way and let some of the other thirsty citizens in line here wet their whistles.”
“Good idea,” agreed Banowski, grabbing a fresh cup. “Speakin’ of miserable divorcés, there’s Mercer. Hey, Arnie, over here!”
Arnie waved. After fighting through a crowd ringing the food table, he joined his fellow officers near the seawall. “Beer?” Kane asked when he arrived.
“Does a bear shit on the Pope?”
“Real nice, Arnie,” said Kane, filling his partner’s cup from the pitcher. “Have you no respect for other people’s feelings? There may be animal lovers here tonight.”
“Sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking.” Arnie took a long pull on his beer, then withdrew a pint of Wild Turkey from his jacket, twisted off the top, and splashed a generous portion into his drink.
“Damn, Arnie. Hell of a way to start out.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Arnie, offering the bottle.
Kane declined. “Long night ahead. Gotta save myself.”
Banowski grabbed the bottle and downed a healthy swig. “Well, I don’t,” he said.
“Me, neither,” chimed in Deluca, taking the pint in turn and amply fortifying his beer before passing the whiskey back to Arnie.