What Waits for You

by Joseph Schneider

  He’s still an actor, thought Jarsdel with some admiration. Still loves to be onstage.

  “Thank you,” said Sponholz. “And now I’ll take questions.”

  * * *

  Los Angeles isn’t always easy to love.

  Maybe that’s because there are really two cities, like sisters. The first comes on strong, doesn’t care what you think of her. She’s a pro, fast and ruthless, and she’ll roll you for all she can. After a day or two, you’re back on the plane with your Universal Studios T-shirt and a flimsy, personalized clapper board—you know, that wooden thing they whack together just before they say “action”—and until then you didn’t realize just how empty and cheated you could feel.

  That was it? That’s LA?

  The real Los Angeles makes you work for her. She hangs back awhile, maybe even for years, while you beat your way with gritted teeth and guidebook through jungles of decaying monuments and souvenir shops and coughing tour buses and a breed of gridlocked traffic that surely can’t be a daily thing—can it, really?

  Sunset Boulevard is one way to meet her. You might not think so—such a hackneyed, obvious pop culture trope—but it’s true. It cuts across the city for twenty miles, from the beaches of Pacific Palisades to the cafés and pupuserias of East Hollywood. Drive it from one end to the other, and then at least you’ll know if you and Los Angeles have a future together.

  Right around La Brea Avenue, Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard begin running parallel with each other, separated only by a couple blocks, vying for their share of our love. On Hollywood you’ve got the Chinese Theatre, the Walk of Fame. On Sunset you’ve got the Cinerama Dome and Amoeba Records.

  The rivalry doesn’t last long. Like the crazed, mercurial souls summoned by its name, Hollywood careens suddenly off course, veering southward and smashing into Sunset in one of the most baffling and dangerous intersections anywhere in the state. And that’s the end of Hollywood Boulevard. Sunset, no worse for the wear, continues its stately march toward Downtown.

  It’s at that schizophrenic six-way intersection, at 4427 Sunset Boulevard, that sits the Tiki-Ti.

  Jarsdel had only been there once. The day he’d turned twenty-one, his dad, Robert, had been driving the two of them to meet Baba for dinner at Musso’s in Hollywood, and he’d suddenly spun the wheel hard to the right and stomped the brake.

  “Whoa, Dad! What’re—”

  But Robert was already out of the car and pulling open the passenger door. “Good lord, you’re twenty-one! Have to pop in for a drink. Just one, I promise, but you’ve got to see this place.”

  That day, Robert Jarsdel had ordered a Singapore Sling for himself and a Zombie for his son. Robert was heftier back then, by at least fifty pounds and most of it muscle, and could really put away his drinks. When they’d jumped back in the car, Jarsdel was giggling. Robert shook his head in dismay. “You’re a cheap date, Tully. You and Baba both.”

  Tiki culture was born in Los Angeles after the death of Prohibition. Of all the liquors suddenly available to a desperately thirsty Southland, rum was cheapest, but few knew how to capitalize on such an unknown, exotic spirit. Then along came Donn Beach. Born Earnest Raymond Beaumont Gantt, Beach had a talent for satisfying white America’s craving for far-flung locales, dark island rituals, and the promise of forbidden pleasures under a swollen tropical moon. He opened his first restaurant, Don the Beachcomber, and in so doing fathered the Tiki zeitgeist.

  Tiki was a celebration of the generic, nonexistent tribes filling out orientalist pulps and Hollywood adventure films, the sort that might welcome a wise Caucasian ruler and award him a hundred willing wives. Beach’s motto summed it up best: If you can’t get to paradise, I’ll bring it to you! It was claptrap, but it would somehow make the extraordinary leap from overtly racist kitsch to a beloved and enduring part of American folk culture.

  Images of bone-nosed natives dancing around cauldrons of boiling missionaries gave way to grim-faced idols, Yma Sumac recordings, and coconut bras. Before long, Tiki art became depopulated of its noble savages altogether, and from then on it was never made quite clear exactly who carved the masks and totems, and assembled the quaint bamboo huts. They were just there, somehow, and now we could enjoy them, too—just pull up a stool and grab a mai tai. By subtracting the race from the racism, Tiki accomplished what Mammy cookie jars and Yellow Peril dime novels never could.

  Buoyed by the postwar surf craze, beach party movies, and Cold War escapism, Tiki managed to hold on until the ’70s—being considered, ironically, a bit square for that particular decade. But Tiki managed to ride the coattails of the Los Feliz renaissance—as long as everyone pretended they loved it in a postmodern way—and thence passed into the grasping, culture-hungry hands of millennials. It was officially here to stay.

  The interior of the Tiki-Ti was about what you’d expect if you could step inside a Martin Denny album cover. Blue, red, and green light seeped from between Fu Manchu mugs and liquor bottles and midcentury mementos—souvenir football helmets and lava lamps and battered vanity plates—the colors meeting in garish but alluring puddles around the bar. The whole thing was a capsized treasure ship of bygone knickknacks, the city’s last great original Tiki bar. A shrine to a culture spun from whole cloth, as authentic a treatment of Polynesian civilization as Sleeping Beauty Castle was to medieval Europe.

  Jarsdel wasn’t much for romanticizing about the past, as a rule found things like Ren Fairs and theme restaurants disconcerting. A waiter dressed as a pirate was less likely to arouse his amusement than thoughts of the sugar trade or of actual pirates like L’Ollonais, who liked to roast his prisoners on a spit. Those throwback all-American diners, with their mini jukeboxes and rounded bar tops, would’ve had Whites Only sections during the actual 1950s. But even Jarsdel couldn’t resist the nostalgic charm of the Tiki-Ti. Like everyone else, he found it simply too much fun to dislike.

  “Hey, hey, you made it.” Sponholz took him by the arm and guided him to a lean woman wearing a bob haircut. “This is Amy, my wife. Amy, I’d like to introduce you to one of my superstars on the task force. Detective Jarsdel.”

  “Call me Tully.” Jarsdel shook the woman’s hand. He tried meeting her gaze as he did so, but her face was dominated by a true showpiece of a nose—an arched, imperious appendage that continually poked itself into view. She took a sip from a fluted glass, three fingers extended daintily. Her nails were long and glossy, with French tips.

  “Ed’s been going on and on about his team,” said Amy. “Said if you can’t catch him, no one’ll be able to.”

  It was probably meant as a compliment, but it soured the mood all the same. The Creeper had shown up, in his own little way, right there in the Tiki-Ti. Jarsdel decided to change the subject.

  “You work at PAB as well?” It wasn’t an unusual question. Many who chose law enforcement as a career found spouses in the same field. Some of the demands of the profession were easier to bear if both parties suffered together.

  Amy Sponholz obviously thought otherwise, sending a derisive hiss through her remarkable nose. “Uh, no, no thank you whatsoever. I’m in real estate.”

  “Oh,” said Jarsdel. “Yeah, I understand. Definitely not for everybody.”

  Amy nodded, but she was already looking around the room for someone else to talk to. She spotted someone and waved. “Excuse me,” she said, moving off.

  Sponholz took Jarsdel’s arm and guided him to a quiet corner of the bar.

  “Hey, means a lot to me that you came.”

  “Not at all, sir. It’s my—”

  “Bah. Please, enough.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, c’mon. We’re all in this together. Rank. Ugh. You know I was never into any of that. I’m an actor, right? I mean at heart, you know, I’m a liberal arts guy. All this rank stuff actually kinda gives me the willies. What’s the point of it, other than to cr
eate boundaries, right? I mean, that’s its purpose.”

  Jarsdel nodded. “I guess, yeah.”

  “Did you know,” Sponholz said, taking on a conspiratorial tone, “I once was in a play with Cybill Shepherd? We even had a kissing scene. Definitely the good old days, back when we were both young and beautiful. Well, she’s still beautiful, actually.” He chuckled. When Jarsdel didn’t respond with the requisite awe, Sponholz was disappointed. “Hey. Think you’ll be able to relax around me?”

  “It’s not so much that. Just thinking about work. About him.”

  The lieutenant’s expression became grim. “I know how it is. We all want him bad.”

  “Even your wife brought it up—which is understandable, of course. I just see every day how essential it is for us to catch him. For the city. Not only his victims, but for the whole city.”

  Sponholz rubbed Jarsdel’s shoulder. “Look, you’re a hell of a guy and I’m honored to have you on my team. Tonight, though—huh?—tonight we’re gonna put all that ugly crap aside and have some tropical drinks. Not drivin’, are ya?”

  Jarsdel smiled. “No. I’m doing Lyft.”

  “Good. Because this…” Sponholz extended a finger and tapped the wall three times, hard. “This is one of maybe five places in the city worth getting completely blotto.”

  * * *

  The next hour passed in a saturated color wheel. Jarsdel poured chilled, expertly crafted secret recipes down his throat at a pace that quickly made them all taste the same. He wandered away from the bar top with his latest find—a Ray’s Mistake, tall and deeply, forbiddingly pink. There’s always a single drink that’s the first of too many, the one you shouldn’t have picked up, and that was the one.

  Some time passed. He glanced around to see where he’d landed and found himself at a low four-top with Rall, Mailander, and Al-Amuli. They each were battling their own sixteen-ouncer of Ray’s Mistake. He looked at his own glass. Half of it was already gone.

  “Hard to sit,” said Rall. “Just sit and have a good time. At all anymore. You know?”

  None of the detectives answered. Jarsdel plucked the wedge of pineapple clinging to the rim of his glass and ate as much of the meat as he could. It was bland and out of season, but at least it was food.

  Al-Amuli looked around the table and downed the rest of his drink. “I still think of that scene. Up in the canyon. They should have nightmare insurance on this job. Like maybe one…I don’t know…like maybe one “blowjob” guaranteed for every nightmare. Just to make up for it.”

  Mailander scowled at him. “Thanks. You know we don’t have to hear every dumb-ass idea that shows up in your head.”

  “Just sayin’—”

  “Yeah and what you’re saying is disgusting. I hate that word. I just hate it. “Blowjob.” Horrible word.”

  Rall held up a hand. “Hey, hey. C’mon, chill, people. We ain’t on duty right now. Ain’t on the clock. Let’s just take a breath.”

  The detectives sat in silence for a while. Jarsdel wasn’t surprised that it was Al-Amuli who broke it.

  “My partner—you know, my normal partner back at Topanga—he said yesterday someone crucified a cat.”

  “What, you mean literally crucified?” asked Rall.

  “Yeah. Be surprised some of the shit goes on up there in the canyon. It’s real, like, frontier territory, like, wilderness. Misfit land.”

  Jarsdel found himself annoyed by Al-Amuli. He didn’t like the way the man spoke, casting about with words, approaching but never quite reaching his point.

  “Lots of nature,” Al-Amuli went on. “Animals. Trees. So lot of that stuff just ends up kinda incorporated into everyday life. You got the city right there, you know, if you follow the boulevard down out of the canyon, city problems and such, but then you go up into the canyon, into the hills there, and it’s pretty rustic. Police gotta be, like, you know, savvy, ’bout both the urban and the rural.”

  Mailander glared at him. “What are you talking about? What does any of this mean?”

  “What? What’d I say?”

  “I’m just not following—”

  “But why’re you getting all upset?”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Did I offend you?”

  “What—”

  “No, I mean, like, did I offend you or something? Have I done or said something that has offended you? Because since day one, you been like this with me, and as far as I know, I’ve been nothing but a gentleman.”

  Mailander flushed. “Um, what does being a gentleman have to do with anything? We’re colleagues. I don’t see how gender makes—”

  Rall rapped his hand on the table, making the glasses rattle. “Hey. Hey, c’mon.”

  “No.” Al-Amuli stood, leveling his index finger at Mailander. “This person has been cutting at me since day one. And I do not like it, but I have been civil and I have been professional. But in moving forward I will not accept this, uh, this toxicity. This is an issue of morale, and this person here, this person right here does not contribute to the morale of the team.”

  Mailander’s voice shook with rage. She spoke slowly. “Get your finger out of my face.”

  Rall rapped on the table again. “Enough.”

  Crack team, thought Jarsdel. Creeper’s days are numbered.

  Sponholz appeared at the tableside, hair stringy and damp with sweat. He brushed away a dangling forelock. “Hey, everything okay? People are looking around.”

  “Sorry, LT,” said Rall. “I think they just need to cool off. Stress and liquor don’t mix.”

  “Right.” He noticed Al-Amuli’s still-extended finger. “Sounds like a good idea, right? Everyone cools off?”

  There was no reply, and the lieutenant touched his arm. “Detective. Hey, this is my birthday party, you know.” He gently pushed Al-Amuli’s hand so he’d stop pointing at Mailander. Al-Amuli allowed his hand to be moved, but as soon as Sponholz let go, he swung the finger back into position. To Jarsdel it looked like a compass needle finding magnetic north.

  A change came over Sponholz, though Jarsdel couldn’t say exactly what. It was a combination of things—a narrowing of the eyes and a hard set to the jaw were part of it, but there was a deeper shift, far below the surface.

  Jarsdel watched as Sponholz seized Al-Amuli’s bicep. The fabric of his shirt stretched taught as the lieutenant’s fingers dug in. He spoke in low, almost seductive tones. “Now you’re going to leave, and we can be friends again on Monday. Because this is my party, and you’re pissing on it, and I don’t care if you’re younger or stronger or faster, but if you don’t haul your cookies right out the goddamned door, I will shut you down.”

  He released Al-Amuli’s arm. The detective stumbled and braced himself on the table.

  “I’m out,” he said, his voice thick with alcohol. “Man, I feel… I’m sorry, LT.”

  Sponholz smiled. “Apology gladly accepted. Get yourself home. Clean slate Monday morning.”

  “Yeah? Shit. I’m such a…” Al-Amuli waved to Rall, Mailander, and Jarsdel. “I apologize.”

  Jarsdel closed his eyes and felt the world spinning. He’d gotten drunk, truly drunk, and knew he’d now be a prisoner of his own poisoned body. When he opened his eyes, Al-Amuli had his hand extended toward Mailander again, but this time in friendship.

  “To you I especially want to apologize. I’m not saying it’s an excuse—but I can tell you…and again this isn’t an excuse… I’ve been really worn down by this whole case, and it’s just very new to me. This kind of pressure.”

  Mailander sighed and gave his hand a single limp shake.

  “Ever since that earthquake,” said Al-Amuli, dropping his arm. “Remember? That earthquake, way back in January. All from there. Lost a sculpture. Living rock, a tree growing into living rock. Bodhidharma, you know, dude brought kung fu to China. Expe
nsive. This import-export place in Chi-town. Earthquake totaled it, dropped it onto the hearth? The heart. Heart of the fireplace. Dropped it there and broke. I’m… Fuck. All right. I’ll see you guys. Super cringe.”

  Sponholz watched him go, his expression thoughtful. He took the now-empty seat at the table. “He’s right. About the earthquake. Like the Creeper came right out of the ground along with valley fever. Those spores don’t just attack people, you know. Lost two trees to some fungus recently. Two random trees in a whole stand of them. Like soldiers who drew the wrong straws in their platoon.”

  “Heard that can happen,” said Rall.

  “Damn earthquake. Source of all my troubles,” Sponholz said to the group. “Probably gonna cost me my ticket to Phantom, too. My beloved Pantages.” He looked over at his wife, who was bent over her phone, lazily thumbing the screen. “She never gives a shit about theater. Good thing we met after my divorce from Thespis, or I don’t know what we’d have had in common.”

  He swung his attention back to the group. “Anyway, hope that didn’t come off as too harsh. With Detective Al-Amuli. Some people, you gotta penetrate through layers of defenses before they actually hear you.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “I don’t want you to think any less of him. Because this might be a little embarrassing for him next week to think about. He’s a good detective. Wouldn’t be here if he weren’t. So I’d appreciate it if you have some compassion moving forward. Our team’s more important than any little squabble. It really is. We’re here to save lives.” He laughed and shook his head. “This is the last thing I wanted to talk about tonight, but here we are. I guess it’s right that we can’t get away from him, from our guy. Maybe we don’t get nights off. Maybe we don’t get breaks. He doesn’t take any breaks, does he? And his victims, they don’t get breaks either.”