“I’m coming,” her dad said now. “I’ll be there tonight, maybe tomorrow if I can’t get a flight. Where will I find you? I’d say this is all your mother’s fault, but you need to answer for this too, Jessica. And so does Mia.”
And Nick too, Jessie thought. She didn’t say his name, but her dad would be learning it soon enough.
The group had partied all day under the hazy white sun, diving into the turquoise pool over and over. The misters were on around the covered patio, the outdoor ceiling fans turned. Nick and Mia laughed and kissed often, their arms wrapped around each other, recounting with Leo and Cherise tales of other parties at Mia’s parents’, of post-Coachella all-nighters and trips to Havasu. Once, as Mia bent over the outdoor fridge rooting for a beer, Leo came up behind her, grabbed her thin hips, and started humping. He turned his face to the group and wagged his tongue. “Uh, uh, uh!” His eyes were hidden behind his mirrored sunglasses.
“Quit it, perv,” Mia laughed, slapping his hands away. Jessie glanced at Nick, but he only laughed along with his friends. Later, Nick approached Cherise in her lounge chair, standing with his crotch directly in front of her face. He grabbed at himself and grunted, “Got something for you, baby.” Cherise only stared up at him, one eye squinted shut against the sun, and blew out a cloud of vanilla Juul smoke. “Use it or lose it, asshole,” she chuckled.
To all of this, Jessie forced an echoing laugh and whoop, accepting every beer and joint passed her way. Otherwise, Mia and everyone else seemed to forget she was there. By midafternoon Jessie felt nauseous, rocked by long hours under the sun and atop the wide pool float. The beer and smoke had helped her nerves, though.
Earlier that morning, her hands had shaken. They shook when she googled the phrase on her phone, making sure it applied. They shook when she looked up the local sheriff department’s number, and when she called and spoke to the woman who answered, and then an officer. She kept her voice low, despite the thick plastered walls of her guest bedroom in her aunt’s home.
Her hands had shaken, saying the words statutory rape. Giving Nick’s full name, his age, and then her birth date. “I think he stole my money too,” she said before hanging up. Her mouth had been so dry. Then she called her dad, who was stuck at the San Jose airport, unable to catch a flight until the afternoon. He was calmer than the day before, but still angry. Jessie reminded him of the location of her aunt and uncle’s house; he’d visited plenty of times for family get-togethers be fore the divorce. Her dad said he’d called the sheriff’s department too, that he’d be “bringing a posse.” It all sounded so terrible. Her mouth was so very dry.
She fell asleep in a lounge chair under the patio, beneath cool droplets of the spraying misters. She woke with a start, though she hadn’t slept long. Did she hear a siren, way down the hill? Would there need to be sirens for this money crime that she barely understood? Out of habit, her mind drifted to thoughts of Nick, to their late nights on the cheap blue rug over the hard tile floor. Each time they slept together had been hurried and nearly silent, but in her daydreams, Jessie recast the encounters, making their gestures slow, lingering. Would he go to jail for what they did together? She watched Nick, out by the pool, still drinking, talking to Leo now. His eyes, his mouth, had not sought her out even once since that last night in the apartment.
She turned her gaze from him and lifted her face to the sky, darkening with clouds from the monsoons that pushed up from Mexico in late summer. Far above, a cloud shadowed the earth as it parked before the burning disc of sun. In that moment, a vision descended over Jessie’s eyes: her hot skin, the bare flesh of the party crowd and the unnamed women in her Instagram searches, the mocking eyes of Nick—all of it cloaked in the cool, velvet dark of midnight. Over the laughter and the hip-hop she could hear the wail of a blues guitar. She didn’t have to close her eyes or plug her ears to imagine it. Instead, this cool world opened wide before her and welcomed her, a moment perfect in its seamless reality.
The cloud scooted away and she squinted against the instant return of desert glare. Was she imagining again? No. Here they were, then. Across the pool, just on the other side of a low iron gate, were three men. One was her father, the other two were unfamiliar, but in uniform. They had badges and guns. Things were going to happen now, and quickly.
The music stopped, the voices grew louder and angry. Was that Mia crying? It didn’t matter. It was all over; she was going home, to her mom’s small expensive house, her dad’s modern condo, to morning fog and summer evening sweatshirts. Things would get bad for Jessie for a little while too. But she wasn’t worried: she would always have music, and the perfect darkness of late, late summer nights.
PART II
LITTLE WHITE LIES
VIP CHECK-IN
BY MICHAEL CRAFT
Little Tuscany
The move, the new job, the fresh beginning, none of that was my idea. But for two men, together for years—hell, decades—the time had come to plot a path toward retirement. And to Dr. Anthony Gascogne, ophthalmologist, Palm Springs felt like the logical destination. To me, not so much.
That was seven years ago, when Anthony was dead set on relocating his practice from LA. Because I balked, he said I could join him in the business as his office manager and assistant. My lackluster career as an actor and model had sputtered to a standstill, so I tagged along to the desert. Soon after, when the law finally allowed, he asked me to marry him.
Then, two years ago, Anthony divorced me. And fired me. And my career path took another unexpected turn—a much darker turn.
Starting over, pushing sixty, I was broke, unemployed, and couch-surfing.
On the brighter side, I was now in Palm Springs.
Well-heeled snowbirds fled for the long summers, but for the rest of us, twelve months of sunshine provided a constant tan, inspiring me to stay fit. And while the sizable gay populace skewed toward the rickety side of Medicare, this demographic twist had its upside: in the eyes of the local gentry, I was still pretty hot (which had a little something to do with the divorce).
My immediate need for income and a cheap apartment led me to consider—briefly—a stint as an escort. But I wasn’t getting any younger, and time would quickly take its toll, as it had on my starstruck dreams, so I settled on a bartending gig to get back on my feet. When I took the job, the manager said, “We already have a Danny.” He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a name tag. “Here you go: Dante.”
The job lasted only five months, but the name stuck, trailing me as I sniffed around for more durable employment. And that’s when a friend tipped me off to a vacation-rental agency that had an immediate opening for a field inspector. I landed the job, which involved checking the condition of properties before guests arrived and after they left. My duties also included occasional VIP check-ins and minor service calls during their stay.
“Yes?” crackled the intercom after I rang the doorbell.
“Dante from Sunny Junket.”
A befuddled pause. “What?”
“My name’s Dante. I’m from Sunny Junket Vacation Rentals.”
“Oh. Just a minute.”
This was one of our premier properties, up in the Little Tuscany neighborhood, where the bohemian feel of steep, winding streets gave no hint of the million-dollar views enjoyed by residents behind their walled courtyards. In the gravel parking court on that rare cloudy afternoon in February, my battered Camry looked especially pathetic—huddled next to an elegant champagne-colored SUV. When did Bentley start making those?
The party of two was registered under the name Edison Quesada Reál, booked for eleven nights, the entire duration of Modernism Week. It was a prime booking in high season, costing north of a thousand a day. The office said the guy was a bigwig art dealer from LA, and they wanted him happy, so they sent me out for the VIP treatment.
I intended to greet them when they arrived at the house, but they’d driven over early, letting themselves in with the keypad code we provided. T
he front door now rattled as someone fussed with the lock from inside. I waited with my slim folder of paperwork, standing under the cantilevered roof of the boulder-lined entryway. A small peeping bird flitted from the top of a barrel cactus and darted into the darkening sky when the door swung open.
“Well, hello.” His Asian eyes widened with interest as he sized me up.
I grinned, returning the once-over. He didn’t fit my picture of anyone named Edison Quesada Reál. And he was too young for a titan of the art world, maybe in his thirties. He had delicate features and a prettiness about him, like a twink who’d grown up, but he’d also hit the gym and was pleasingly buff, for a short guy. I’ve always had a thing for short guys.
I reached to shake hands. “I’m Dante. Welcome.”
“And I’m Clarence Kwon. Friends call me Clark.”
“Hi there”—I smiled—“Clark.”
“C’mon in,” he said, stepping aside and closing the door after me. He was dressed with the casual sophistication of moneyed LA—wispy calfskin loafers, tailored slacks, and a clingy cream-colored cashmere sweater with its arms shoved up to his elbows. Nice pecs. Good guns.
By contrast, I looked dorky in dad jeans and a yellow polo shirt embroidered with the Sunny Junket logo. Gesturing to myself, I told Clark, “They make me wear this.”
He laughed. “You look great.” And I half believed him as he wagged me along, leading me toward the back of the house.
As we entered the main room, the view opened up from a wall of glass. Although I had seen it many times, the elevated vista never failed to stop me cold. Even on that gloomy day, I caught my breath as the city spread out below, peeking through the crowns of distant palms. Sloping down from one side, granite mountains muscled into the scene to wrap around the city. Above, in a vast gray sky, clouds slowly roiled, snagged on the barren shards of the horizon.
“Edison,” said Clark, “the guy from the agency is here.”
Seated at the center of the huge window, facing out, mere inches from the glass, a man in a wheelchair remained dead still for a moment. Then he grasped both wheels. The rings adorning his hands clanged the chrome rims as he turned the chair to face me.
I stepped toward him.
“Stop,” he said sharply. “Let me get a look at you.”
I waited. He was older than me, well into his seventies, and way too heavy to be healthy. Though stuck in a wheelchair, he was smartly dressed—to the point of flamboyance—with a silk scarf of peacock blue around his neck. I shot him a smile.
“Forgive me if I don’t get up,” he said. “If I could, I’d kiss you.” He spoke with a worldly refinement and the trace of a Castilian lisp.
I moved to the wheelchair. “But I hardly know you.”
He grinned as we shook hands. “You’re quite the cheeky little cabbage, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been called many things, Mr. Quesada Reál. But never a cabbage.”
He let out a feeble roar of a laugh. “Please, please—it’s Edison.”
“And I’m Dante.”
“Of course you are.” His tone sounded almost suspicious. Had he seen through my act, the stagey name, the swarthy tan?
Clark moved to the far end of the room, near the long dining table, where he fussed with several piles of art prints, all of them protected by plastic sleeves. While arranging them vertically in wood-slatted browsing racks, he called over to me, “Did you bring us something to sign?”
“No, actually, that was handled online. I just need to snap a picture of the credit card you’ll use for payment—and a driver’s license to verify the name.”
Edison noted, “I don’t drive. You’ll need to handle this, precious.”
The younger man stopped his sorting. With an impatient sigh, he pulled his wallet from a pocket, slid out his license and an AmEx, and plopped them on the table. “This what you need?”
“You bet.” I went over and took pictures of the cards with my phone. I noticed that Clarence Kwon was thirty-four, which could not have been half Edison’s age. I assumed they were a couple; even though their rental was one of our most expensive properties, it had only one bedroom. I explained, “For these pedigreed houses, we run the charges every other day.”
Clark shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said Edison, wheeling himself in our direction. “You know I’m good for it, precious.”
Clark said nothing as he resumed sorting the artwork.
Edison continued, “Truth be told, no price would be too high for this.” He flung both arms, a gesture that embraced the whole house. Then he leaned forward, beading me with a milky stare. “Do you know who designed this, Dante?”
“Umm, I’ve heard, but …”
Edison sat back, twining the plump fingers of both hands. “Alva Kessler designed and built this house for himself shortly before he died in the late fifties. He envisioned it as a pure, modernist vacation ‘cabin’—a sleek exercise in glass and steel. Truly magnificent, yes? In its sheer minimalism, it’s every bit as fresh and avant-garde as it was sixty years ago. And now, for a while, it’s all mine.” Edison paused, turning his head toward Clark. “I mean, it’s all ours.”
“Right,” said Clark, looking peeved. “Ours, when I’m not at the convention center.”
I asked, “The art sale? I know it’s a big deal during Modernism. I went once.”
“Once”—Edison sniffed—“is enough.”
Clark added, “If you’ve seen one lava lamp, or one Noguchi table, you’ve seen’m all.”
Edison explained that his Los Angeles gallery, Quesada Fine Prints—which dealt in original graphic art, no reproductions—had rented exhibit space where they would offer collectors a wide selection of lithographs, engravings, and screen prints from the mid-1900s. The bulk of their inventory had already been delivered to the convention center, with two of their staffers setting up for the show. The most valuable works, however, would remain here at the house, with Clark showing them by appointment or delivering them for consideration by high-end buyers.
Listening to these details, I stepped over to one of the racks to take a look and was instantly drawn to a smaller print, less than a foot high. “This is great,” I said, breaking into a smile as I lifted it from the bin. “It would sure be at home in Palm Springs.” Bright and colorful, it was a blotchy depiction of a swimming pool.
“That’s a David Hockney,” said Clark. “Limited-edition lithograph, signed artist’s proof, mint condition. At this show, it’s our jewel in the crown.”
Edison said, “Sell that one to the right buyer, precious, and you’ll get the other Bentley.” He turned to tell me, “Clark’s been wanting the convertible.”
Gingerly, I handed the Hockney to Clark, who said, “Edison is exaggerating.” He glanced at the coded sticker on the back of the plastic sleeve, adding, “Or maybe not.”
“I’m feeling peckish,” said Edison. “Some trifle would help.”
Under his breath, Clark told me, “He’s been a bit much lately.”
Edison reminded us, “I can hear you.”
Clearly seething, Clark turned to the wheelchair. “I’m not your coolie servant.”
“But you are.” Edison chuckled. “You can leave, if you want—but you won’t. And I can’t divorce you, can I? Far too costly. Face it, precious: we’re stuck.”
Rain began to spit against the expansive window and drip in long tendrils, streaking the glass from top to bottom, rippling the million-dollar view.
Hoping to defuse the tension, I asked, “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Edison gave me a lecherous look. “Like … what?”
“I’d show you through the house, but you’re already settled in. It’s an older place, has a few quirks. The electronics are all new. Most guests have questions.”
Edison said, “We’ll figure it out.” Then he blurted, “Pink fluff!”
Bewildered, I looked to Clark for guidance.
&nbs
p; Still sorting prints, he spoke to me over his shoulder. “We brought a few things that need to go in the fridge—including the raspberry trifle. Could you?”
“Sure.” The galley kitchen opened into the main room from the street side of the house. While the A/V system was up-to-the-minute, the kitchen had retro appliances with a midcentury vibe. The vintage refrigerator was a hulking old Philco in red porcelain enamel; the doors of the top freezer and the main compartment both featured elaborate chrome-handled latches.
Edison wheeled in behind me, watching as I hefted five or six shopping bags from the floor to the countertop. They held a few canned goods and liquor bottles, which I set aside, but they were mostly filled with clear plastic containers brimming with a sludgy concoction that Edison had aptly described as pink fluff. Two bags contained ingredients to make more of it—box after box of fresh raspberries, jars of raspberry jam and Melba sauce, several hefty packages of pound cake. A zippered thermal bag contained at least a dozen rattling cans of aerosol whipped cream.
“Now,” Edison barked with a wild look in his eyes, “pink fluff!”
I removed the lid from one of the Tupperware tubs.
“Smell it,” he commanded.
Whoa. The recipe had been lavishly spiked with Cointreau. The piercing boozy scent of orange melded with the tart perfume of crushed berries, making both my mouth and my eyes water.
“Now,” he repeated, reaching with trembling hands.
I gave it to him, then slid a drawer open. “Fork? Or spoon?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He looked ready to slop into it with his fingers. I gave him a spoon.
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