Reef Dance

by John Decure

  But something took him off his course. Maybe it was just a long succession of letdowns that drained away his confidence and stole his swagger. Perhaps his long-standing money troubles had slowly eaten away the best part of him. I didn’t know, and wasn’t about to ask.

  Grog shoveled a few more tortilla chips dripping with salsa into his mouth. “You know, you and Jackie have a way of just taking care of business,” he said. “Thing is, that can rub people the wrong way sometimes.”

  “Easy, Grog,” I said. “Jackie’s in quite another league. He’s up there with the hippo-riding used car salesmen and personal injury lawyers who use quadriplegics for testimonials.”

  “Point taken,” he said, chugging from his bottle.

  I drank with Grog, polishing my first bottle and switching to the second. I read the label—Carta Blanca—and thought of Carmen Manriquez shaming me about my Spanish.

  “Besides,” I said, “you know he’s unstoppable when he catches someone doing the idol-worship thing.”

  “Also true,” Grog said. “Rausch was lucky to leave the table with his wallet intact.”

  I glanced at the still-jammed bar area. A leggy girl in a purple tube top had mounted a small wooden table and begun a spirited flamenco dance as Jackie and the others hooted and hand-clapped the beat. A stressed-out older guy who had to be the restaurant manager was there, too, jockeying about beneath the girl, hands out, trying to break her fall if it came to that.

  “The night’s still young,” I said. “I’ve got a feeling Rausch is gonna pay for every one of those signatures.”

  We sat a while longer without speaking. Grog set his bottle down, straightened the rumpled tablecloth with his forearm and peered into the crimson recesses of the restaurant. “How’s Britt’s mother?” he said.

  “Pam’s fine,” I answered. “We talked early this morning when I picked him up.”

  “She say anything about me? About the business?”

  I shook my head. “She doesn’t talk to me about what you’re doing.”

  “She doesn’t know about the products show. If she knew about the show—”

  “She knows,” I said. “You told Britt all about it. Don’t worry, she’s sufficiently enthused, Grog.”

  His eyes welled up. “I’m having a hell of a time making that support payment every month. She’s been great about it, too. I know if she wanted to she could haul my butt into court and get an order.”

  “You know that’s not her style,” I said. “She’s doing all right, for now. The Bardo Gallery’s still a tough gig. They just finished a worthless show with that Japanese artist whose sculptures all look like tortoise shells.”

  “Customers weren’t biting?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing sold.”

  Grog sighed heavily. “It’s sink or swim when you’re on commish,” he said.

  I crushed a chip between my fingers. “They’re opening a show by that Outer Islands surfer, Lamont Dunne, next week. Pam’s luck may be about to change.”

  “Know I’ve heard of him,” Grog said, his brow knotted.

  “He’s that guy from Kauai. You’ve seen his stuff, these surreal airbrushed scenes of sea creatures and perfection surf.”

  Grog snorted. “Let’s hope he goes over a little better than the turtle man did. Wonder how her gallery got him. That owner, Bardo, he’s quite a little work of art in his own right.”

  “Bardo didn’t have anything to do with this,” I said. “Lamont had a show in Laguna last June. I took Pam by, the weekend Britt had a contest at Brooks Street.”

  “I remember,” Grog said. “Missed that one. Britt got third. Didn’t speak to me for a week.”

  More bad vibes. Grog looked adrift, full of regret. He fumbled for a smoke but couldn’t find one. I decided to just power through.

  “Anyway, Lamont was there that day in Laguna. We got into a rap about surfing. A few years ago he bought a gun my father shaped for big Sunset at an auction. Restored it himself. He keeps it on his living room wall, over the fireplace.”

  “Small world,” Grog said, his voice trailing away. He flexed the fingers in his right hand, watching them expand and contract as if comforted by the fact that they were under his exclusive control. “I’ve always said your old man never really left you, even after he died. Pam must be stoked.”

  I nodded my assent as Grog took a deep swig from his bottle.

  “Britt says you’ve got a new lady on the line,” he said.

  Precious Phoebe, somewhere in the Orient by now, shooting her next ad. Knowing we were an ocean apart made me miss her even more. “She’s probably already history,” I told him.

  “Heard she was there when the house got trashed.”

  I nodded. “First time she’d ever been to my place, too,” I said. “Jackie was talking orgy as soon as he laid eyes on her.”

  “Subtle bastard, isn’t he? Too bad. Heard she was quite a betty.”

  Grog searched my face for a reaction, but I gave him nothing. Talking about Phoebe just heightened the pain.

  “She was.”

  Grog stopped eating chips and looked ready to make his point. “You know,” he said, “taking care of people who are more goofed up than you is never gonna square what happened.”

  “Square what happened?” I asked. I wanted to make him say it.

  “You know,” he said. “What happened with Marielena. It wasn’t your fault.”

  I felt lightheaded from the alcohol, and the rush of bad vibes that came with that name. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

  He leaned forward on his elbows. “Listen man, you were born with a generous spirit, Moondoggie. That’s okay, but, just try to take care of yourself, too.”

  I considered telling him about my find in the attic, and my plan to discover what I could about my mother’s disappearance. Grog had known Marielena back then. Perhaps he’d have a perspective or two to share, to help point me in the right direction.

  “So tell me, what did happen?” I asked.

  Grog looked away. “I wish I knew.”

  So much for that.

  “How do you propose that I take care of myself?” I said.

  He concentrated. “The broken dishwasher. Make the clown pay.”

  I doubted that Stone Me Stevie was holding down a steady job at fifteen. “He was just a kid, Grog.”

  Grog sighed as if his patience was running thin. “I’m talking about Jackie.”

  “Oh, I plan to make Golden Boy pay. No more free rides. I’m putting him to work.”

  Across the room, Jackie was busy officiating a swordfight between two young men wielding miniature scabbards they’d plucked from a wall display.

  “Jackie, working?” Grog scoffed. “The words sound funny just saying them together.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve got this interesting court case, and I was thinking—”

  “The one with the lady who sold her kid, I know,” he said. “Saw it on the news, twice.”

  “The county’s case against this woman is pretty one-sided. I know there’s more to it. Maybe Jackie can help me find the handle by doing a little investigative work.”

  Grog stared at me long and hard. “You lost your fucking mind?”

  “So what if I turn him loose?” I said. “What harm could it do?”

  “You gotta be joking, kid. You know what he’s about, you of all people, J. You’re a lawyer, a professional. He’s a half-baked demigod to a bunch of surfers who don’t even know him. A has-been. Since when did you give a shit about what that bozo thinks?”

  “He thinks I don’t know how to win,” I said. “Thinks I don’t have the heart. And listen to you, you’re a real confidence booster. You think I can’t even take care of myself.”

  Grog held up his hand as if to stop the flow. “J., I didn’t mean—”

  “Maybe I’m gonna show you both a few things,” I said. “Keep your TV on Channel Six, because that lady’s going to get her kid back.”
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br />   Grog folded his arms on the table. “Fair enough, my friend. Of course, you’ll have to beat the Wizard of Oz to do it. You know, that old lawyer with the slicked white hair and fancy clothes. Real bullshit artist.”

  I gazed at the dusty, black-felt painting that hung on the wall above our booth. An Aztec warrior of Greek proportions knelt at the base of a stone pyramid, a beautiful maiden draped across his outstretched arms in offering.

  “I can beat Nelson Gilbride,” I said.

  Grog tipped his beer bottle. “Course you can. But listen to me, Tubesteak, don’t get Jackie mixed up in it. These are things about him even you don’t know”

  “How’s that?”

  He looked around as if to make sure Jackie was out of earshot. “That other lawyer, Gilbride? He might try to sell you snake oil. But Jackie . . .”—he hesitated—“Jackie’s bad medicine.”

  Ten

  I awoke Sunday morning to a chill south wind that rattled my window blinds, and to the whisper of scattered shore-dump scuffling the inside bar down at the end of Porpoise Way. A south like this, whistling off a haggard sea at first light, will hack the surf to pieces, foiling even the earliest dawn patrol. It is a rare, unpredictable wind. A heady south wind means desperation time.

  The inside of my mouth was dry, and my lips felt painted shut. Blades of shadow swayed on the ceiling. I lay on my back in bed, staring up, my sleepy calm fast retreating, making way for a singular thought: one day closer to the Randall trial.

  Jackie was downstairs rumbling in the kitchen. He’d barely spoken to me on the drive home from Oceanside last night when I changed my mind and told him I didn’t need his help as an investigator after all.

  A slender young woman was standing in front of the stove when I came in, perusing my collection of frying pans. She was near-naked but for a tiny pair of black panties, a white tank-top with low-cut sides that exposed most of her breasts, and a Harley-Davidson ball cap she’d pulled down low over her dyed pink hair. Jackie sat at the kitchen table in boxer shorts, chewing on an unlit cigar while he picked his way through the Sunday paper. He was reading and didn’t bother to look up at me.

  I returned to my bedroom and found a white terry-cloth robe, which I brought downstairs again and handed to the girl in my kitchen. She took the robe without comment and put it on. She seemed not the least bit ashamed of her body—a sexual athlete, I guessed, the kind who always find their way to Jackie. Aside from a distracting pair of silver studs in her left nostril, her skin was flawless and her face was quite striking.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be Fiona?” I said to her. She must have come in very late last night.

  Fiona introduced herself with a nod. “Nice pans,” she said, laying a frying pan on the burner. She had another stud embedded in her tongue. “They’re French.”

  “Help yourself,” I said, competing with Jackie for various sections of the Sunday Times that lay strewn about the dining table.

  “I adore all things French,” Fiona said. “Jackie and I met in Paris.”

  “Really?” I said, feigning interest. “Then how about some French toast?”

  She nodded, went to the refrigerator and fished out milk, a carton of eggs, and a loaf of bread. I took out a mixing bowl and spoon and put them on the counter. “Powdered sugar or syrup?” I said.

  The girl smiled coyly. “Both.” A natural flirt.

  We dipped the bread and cooked in silence.

  “Come on, Jack,” I said twenty minutes later, pushing a plate in front of him. “You can’t stay mad at me forever.”

  He put down the Business page and began devouring his food. “I’m not mad. Confused is the word. First I’m gonna be your chief investigator, then two words from Grog Baker and like that”—he snapped his fingers violently—“I’m fuckin’ history.”

  “I didn’t know you cared so much about working. This is a side of you I’ve never seen.”

  He bore down on his food again. “Eat me, J.”

  He seemed truly upset, having been fired from a job he’d not yet begun. I ate my French toast, puzzling through the logic he may have been following. He would be against my search for my mother. If he didn’t help on the Randall case, I would have to work harder than ever and, as a result, have less time to resume my search for Marielena Shepard on the side. But if he helped, wouldn’t I have more time to look for her? I was getting nowhere. I stirred the maple syrup on my plate in circles with a forkful of cold breakfast. Perhaps I’d been wrong about Jackie knowing something.

  “Look, man,” Jackie said as I cleared the dishes from the table, “let me be blunt. You’re obviously in a time of need. Now, I may not have much of a work history, but—”

  “You don’t have any work history.”

  “Whatever. But come on, J., you know I know how to get things done. You need me on this.”

  I dumped the dishes in the sink and turned around to face him. “You still want to help?”

  “You know I can. Is that so hard to believe, my friend?”

  It was. The last time he had truly bailed me out of a difficult situation was the first time, that cold morning out on the reef at Holys. Since then, I’d always been the one to open my checkbook to cover the damages, to reason calmly with agitated authorities, to throttle back whenever the Jackie Pace Good-Time Machine ran a little too rich.

  “Okay,” I said, “but it’s my ass. You’ve got to take direction from me. You’re not a free wheel. You work with me, we work together.”

  Jackie went to the refrigerator and found a bottle of Heineken I’d stashed way in back. “So what did that tapped out tallywhacker Baker say that made you change your mind?” he said.

  I hadn’t understood Grog’s warning, but I trusted him enough to not repeat it to Jackie. “Nothing,” I said, concocting a lie. “It’s just, you and I are friends. If you were to make a mistake that would cost me, it might cause a problem between us.”

  “That was it?” he said as if disappointed. Jackie lifted the bottle and drank, then smiled at Fiona and me. “No worries, brother.”

  Fiona finished her breakfast and drifted off to the living room couch to sleep. I brought the case file to the dining room table and spread out the various documents and notes. Slowly, a list of work to be done emerged. I told Jackie I would interview the adoption broker, Lois Nettleson, and Arturo, Sue Ellen’s former Silverlake neighbor. I would be plenty busy in the meantime doing prep work once I found out who Gilbride’s expert would be. The rules of discovery required Belinda McWhirter to provide me with a copy of the expert’s report in time enough to prepare for trial; I’d wait until then to worry about the bonding issue.

  Jackie would check out the situation with the Randalls’ former landlord, the one who claimed they’d ditched the Pontrellis without leaving a forwarding address. I doubted that would lead to much—at best, the landlord’s testimony would be circumstantial as to fraud. More important, I instructed Jackie to have a look around at Woodside Community Hospital, the place where Sue Ellen supposedly had been straight-armed into giving birth prematurely, and in staggering pain.

  “What am I supposed to be looking for, boss?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. I wasn’t sure if Sue Ellen’s story was even the truth, so my directions were few. “Just do what you always do,” I told him. “Figure something out.”

  He broke into a manic grin, cupped his hand into a horn shape and raised it to his lips. “Doctor Pace,” he said, imitating a public address announcement, “please come to the O.R. immediately.” He dropped his hand, still beaming. “Gotta say I like the sound of that. This is gonna be a gas.”

  His humor had its usual wearying effect on me. “Nothing illegal. And don’t cut any patients open while you’re there—or at least scrub before you do.” I began packing up the file.

  “Hey, J., you think she did it?” he said. “You know, scammed those people out of their money.”

  He needed to have a context for the proceedings,
to know what we were fighting for. I could see that much. “Maybe,” I said. “I doubt it. But the lawyer for those rich people, he took advantage of her. That much I know.”

  That was all I could manage in support of Sue Ellen Randall for now.

  Jackie was skeptical about Sue Ellen when I told him about Ronny Randall’s quiet exodus to Kentucky, and he seemed unimpressed with my meek endorsement. “Is she gonna be cool from here on out?” he asked.

  “Probably. She doesn’t have any more kids to take out of state, if that’s what you mean. All she’s gotta do is hang in there and wait for trial.”

  “The woman who sold her baby?” Fiona said behind us. She’d removed her Harley cap and wrapped a blanket over her shoulders. Her eyes were heavy with sleep. “I saw you on TV,” she said to me as if to explain.

  “I just hope she and her husband resist the impulse to do anything stupid between now and next week,” I said.

  “Has she ever seen the kid?” Jackie said. “I mean, since the hospital?”

  “Just once,” I said. “That’s where I went Friday night. Her first scheduled visit is tomorrow at the county’s offices.”

  “Ooh, I hope they show that on TV!” Fiona said.

  Jackie frowned at the notion of a televised visit, as did I. “She’s gonna get hassled,” Jackie said, “isn’t she, J.?”

  I hadn’t really considered attending the first visit, which was set for Monday at four at the department’s East L.A. office. I’d never done it before, in any of the hundreds of other cases I’d handled. But none of those cases was anything like this one. Christ, even Fiona and Jackie were dialed in to the situation. What was I thinking? Sue Ellen’s first visit with a child she’d given away was an emotional jackpot for interested bystanders. The scene could get crazy.

  “You all right, man?” Jackie asked me. “You’re looking a little flushed around the gills.”

  I had that sinking feeling that I was getting too close, too involved. This has never been my way. The key to stomaching dependency was keeping a healthy distance to maintain perspective—and sanity. But the Matter of Nathan Randall was swallowing me.