by Meg Gardiner
But I couldn’t say it, because the words would rub off the scab over my heart and start it bleeding again.
Six-year-olds can sure leave a hole when they go home.
Luke was my nephew, my brother’s little boy. He lived with me for a year while Brian’s fighter squadron was overseas, and later because Brian’s estranged wife joined an extremist religious sect—violent zealots who tried to poison me and who nearly killed Brian to get their hands on Luke. It was a nightmare. But so far I was healthy, and Brian had recovered. So Luke had gone home, and that was good. Still.
I kissed Thea, and handed her back. ‘‘Say a prayer for Jesse.’’
‘‘Didn’t think he believed in the power of prayer.’’
‘‘He doesn’t. That’s why he needs us backing him up.’’
In the morning the sun cut through the shutters, painting stripes across the patchwork quilt on my bed. I stretched and rolled over. I could hear birds singing outside, and a garbage truck rumbling up the street. The air promised heat.
Nothing inspires me more than summer days, but I lay pinned by thoughts of Franklin Brand, thoughts of failure and foreboding.
I got up, headed into the kitchen, and turned on the coffeepot and the Today show. I never used to watch breakfast television, but a quiet house now unsettled me. All my tidy self-sufficiency, my Scandinavian furniture and Ansel Adams prints, my whole single-girl leitmotif, had paled. I wanted mess. I wanted kids. I missed Luke.
While the coffee brewed I checked my calendar. My schedule was busy: I was working on two appellate briefs, had a steady gig doing research for a local law firm, was editing my new novel, Chromium Rain, and preparing to give a seminar at the East Beach Writers’ Conference. Together it added up to my car and mortgage payments, and a lot of freedom. If I closed the shutters I could even work wearing nothing but my Diana Ross wig and a crazed grin. I’ve never done that, but might, someday. Maybe when the killer asteroid reaches our atmosphere and everyone else is busy downtown, looting.
My morning was free. I could try again to serve the summons on Cal Diamond.
Briefly I glanced at the pile of papers on the dining table. It was the wedding mound: invitations, notes on the caterer, the photographer, music. . . . Just looking at it made my heart race and my head pound. I was excited, felt overdue, and wasn’t ready, not even close. The mound begged for attention, but I poured myself a cup of coffee and headed for the shower.
Half an hour later I climbed into my Explorer and aimed it toward Diamond Mindworks. I was wearing a khaki skirt, turquoise blouse, and loafers. Forget pretense. I planned to burn the go-go boots.
The company was in Goleta, a sprawling suburb that hosts most of the area’s high-tech industry. The coastal marshlands carried the scent of salt water to my nose. A jet glinted on final approach to the airport. Beyond the runway, on a bluff above the Pacific, sat the University of California, Santa Barbara, my alma mater.
The jet flared and came in, thrust reversers roaring. I drove into a business park, past imported coconut palms, toward a sleek building with smoked blue glass and curving white lines. It looked like a cruise ship cutting through the lawn.
I slowed. An ambulance was parked outside the entrance.
I parked, headed into the lobby, and stopped. The receptionist slumped at the front desk, crying into the phone.
‘‘. . . just now, oh, God . . . right here in the office . . .’’
I stood, summons clutched in my hand.
‘‘. . . no, no warning, when she walked in he just . . .’’
She looked up. She had a chubby face and oil-gusher hair. Mascara was smeared across her cheek. A plaque on the desk said, HI, I’M AMBER GIBBS.
I said, ‘‘I need—’’
‘‘We have an emergency. You’ll have to come back.’’
Somebody, I thought, was dead here. And I did a shameful thing.
‘‘I have a delivery for Mr. Diamond.’’
A paramedic pushed through the door into the lobby, carrying a heavy equipment case. The phone rang. When Amber picked it up, I followed the paramedic down a hall. Hearing Amber call, ‘‘Wait . . .’’ I kept going behind the paramedic, turned the corner, and found the hallway full of people. They huddled, staring at an office door with a brass nameplate: CAL DIAMOND.
A man near me was muttering, ‘‘Did you hear it? The crash was awful loud.’’
A woman said, ‘‘The way she screamed. My lord.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Who’d ever believe I could feel bad for Mari Diamond?’’
I felt a sick chill, and a horrible image formed in my head. The summons hung in my hand. I knew I wasn’t going to be serving it.
The office door opened and the crowd fell silent. Two paramedics came out, hauling a stretcher. I stared at it. The stretcher rolled by. Strapped on it, face swaddled in an oxygen mask, was a bald man in his fifties. Unruly eyebrows tangled above his waxy face.
I heard a woman saying, ‘‘Everyone, go home. We’re shutting the building.’’
Standing in the office doorway, dressed in a pink-and-lime -green suit, holding a Chihuahua under one arm, was Mari Diamond.
Nobody moved. The little dog cringed in her grip, vibrating like a tuning fork.
She said, ‘‘For my sake. Go. Now.’’
She looked like a bud vase wearing perfume and kitten heels. People began shuffling away, and she saw me. Her eyes were as bright and brittle as lightbulbs. Her mouth tautened.
She pointed at the summons. ‘‘Is that the lawsuit?’’
Heads turned.
‘‘Is it?’’ She was walking toward me.
‘‘Yes,’’ I said.
She slapped me in the face. I felt surrounded by sharp light and heat.
‘‘Cal’s had a heart attack,’’ she said. ‘‘Because of that. You nearly killed him.’’
4
Jesse threw his pen on the desk and said, ‘‘Oh, no.’’
‘‘Straight to cardiac intensive care,’’ I said. ‘‘They don’t know if he’ll survive.’’
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind him the sun spilled through his office window. The mountains packed the view, pulsing green in the heat beneath a blue sky.
‘‘Poor, rotten bastard,’’ he said.
In the hallway his boss scudded by. He called to her.
‘‘Lavonne. Cal Diamond’s had a heart attack.’’
Lavonne Marks hovered like a Jewish mother and had a Philadelphia accent that hit your ears like bricks. She was an old campus radical, which is why Sanchez Marks was nicknamed the Militant Wing. She shook her head.
‘‘Hold off on serving the summons. He isn’t going anywhere. ’’
‘‘About that,’’ I said. ‘‘There’s a minor problem.’’
I told them about Delaney v. Vasquez Diamond II: Gidget Gets Bitch-Slapped. I explained how I left Diamond Mindworks at a run, repeating, Don’t smack the wife. Mari was frightened and hysterical. Don’t get indignant. Don’t hold it against her. I could hear the Chihuahua yapping all the way to the lobby. And Mari, shouting: ‘‘I’m calling my lawyer. They’ll run your tits through a paper shredder.’’
Jesse said, ‘‘That’s absurd.’’
‘‘She’s in the mood for absurdity. Expect a phone call,’’ I said.
Lavonne said, ‘‘I hope you don’t in any way feel responsible for this. It’s not your fault. And— My God, where did that come from?’’
Her eyes had gone as round as coins. She was looking at Jesse’s computer. The screen was displaying the image of a penis the size of a bratwurst.
Jesse raised his hands. ‘‘Shoot, oh. I don’t know. Lavonne—sorry.’’
He started stabbing at the keyboard. His face had paled.
‘‘The Web browser opened on its own. I didn’t do this,’’ he said.
‘‘I hope not. I didn’t think this was your proclivity, Mr. Blackburn.’’
With each key he hit, a new image popped up, more explicit
than the last. He tried to quit the program and a dialog box appeared.
Do you have a tiny penis? Click YES or NO.
He tried to click no. The button jumped around the screen, playing keepaway.
‘‘Stupid practical joke . . .’’ He clicked yes.
Another box appeared. Shall we send you more photos? Click. A third box. Shall we forward them to your boss?
‘‘What is this?’’ he said.
Lavonne frowned. ‘‘It’s an intrusion.’’ She headed for the door. ‘‘I’m getting our IT guy.’’
Jesse tried again to quit.
Shall we send photos of you?
He stared at the screen. The cursor blinked.
We can. We have them, Blackburn.
‘‘This is screwed.’’
He tried to quit again. Nothing happened. He reached around to the back of the computer and yanked out the Ethernet cable, disconnecting from the Internet. A new dialog box appeared.
You can’t stop this.
He hit the power key. The computer died.
‘‘I believe you, Jesse. I do,’’ Lavonne said.
The IT guy concurred. Jesse’s computer had been breached. The firm’s firewall should have stopped the porn photos from getting through, but didn’t. He ran a virus scan on the laptop but found nothing.
‘‘Probably a worm,’’ the IT guy said. He scratched his goatee. ‘‘Came to you randomly, and your machine may have sent it on randomly. Check with people on your e-mail list, see if any of them are having this problem.’’
‘‘But it referred to me by name,’’ Jesse said.
‘‘Your e-mail screen name’s j-dot-blackburn. The worm probably picked it up automatically.’’
Jesse shook his head. ‘‘I don’t like this.’’
‘‘Nobody does. Fortunately, you’re the only one at the firm who’s been infected.’’
‘‘If it happens again?’’
The IT guy shrugged. ‘‘Let me know.’’
The 911 dispatcher took the call at ten thirty that night: disturbance at Harry’s Plaza Café. The manager reported customers fighting outside the restaurant. ‘‘It’s turning ugly,’’ she said. ‘‘Shouting and shoving and yeah, there goes, guy’s throwing a punch.’’
By the time the patrol car drove up, it was over. The manager came out the door, pointing.
‘‘Two of them already split. Fat man in droopy jeans and a skinny girl with black hair. Laurel and Hardy.’’ She hooked a thumb toward the restaurant. ‘‘It’s the one inside I want you to get rid of.’’
He was leaning on the bar, nursing a Jim Beam and busted knuckles. When the cops walked up, he tossed back the bourbon and put the glass down.
‘‘There’s no problem here, Officers. I wanted to finish my drink. I’ll go.’’
They escorted him outside and asked to see some ID.
‘‘I told you, there’s no problem. I’m leaving.’’
He tried to walk away. The officers noted his sharp clothes, the cologne, his torn knuckles and rabbity eyes. They insisted on seeing an ID.
He huffed, but finally handed it over. A British Honduras diplomatic passport.
The cops examined it, glanced at each other, and asked to see another ID.
‘‘No.’’ His nose was rising. ‘‘I have diplomatic immunity. ’’
‘‘From a country that no longer exists? I don’t think so.’’
And what do you know, not only had his California driver’s license expired, but it had a different name on it. They ran it, and the warrant showed right up.
Out came the cuffs. ‘‘Franklin Brand?’’ they said. ‘‘You’re under arrest.’’
5
The news came the next day, right after the weirdness.
I bumped into Harley Dawson at the county law library. She asked me to meet her for a drink after work at the Paradise Café, and she was sitting by the window when I walked in. She waved and brushed her silver hair back from her face.
When I sat down she said, ‘‘Hey ya, baby doll.’’
Sunshine was falling through the venetian blinds, and in the stark light she looked like a character in an old film noir. It was the sense of solitude she exuded, and the flinty edges, the jagged energy.
She said, ‘‘You’ll be happy to hear that George Rudenski is circling the wagons at Mako. People won’t blow their noses without calling to check with me first.’’
‘‘Good.’’
‘‘No, it’s a pain in the ass.’’
‘‘Is that why you wanted to get together, to tell me that?’’
‘‘Not at all. Though I do inform you that the hornet’s nest is now stirred up. You can put away your poking stick.’’
‘‘But it’s so shiny and sharp,’’ I said. ‘‘For example.
How well did you know Franklin Brand?’’
‘‘Oy vay.’’ She leaned back. ‘‘Not well. He didn’t return phone calls. Did golf course deals.’’
‘‘Have you ever wondered if the anonymous caller works at Mako?’’
‘‘The gal who liked sucking on Brand’s spermsicle stick? No, I haven’t.’’ The sun shone on her freckles. ‘‘Want to go to Del Mar this weekend? They’re running the Oaks. Afterward we could get in eighteen at Torrey Pines.’’
I laughed. ‘‘Harley, you know I don’t gamble, and the time you tried to teach me to play golf I hit you on the head with a putt. A weekend away sounds great, but pick a secondary target.’’
‘‘Vegas. You could catch a show.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Can’t help it. In the blood.’’
Her father had been a high roller, and she spent her childhood in casino coffee shops and along the rail at Santa Anita. But I wondered if her yen for company meant she was having one of her periodic tussles with loneliness. I was about to ask, when a waiter came to the table with an ice bucket and two champagne flutes.
‘‘What’s this?’’ I said.
Harley looked coy. ‘‘Time to kick off the wedding party.’’
The waiter put the champagne bottle on the table. I saw the label.
‘‘You’re kidding.’’
‘‘You want something more upscale?’’ Harley said.
‘‘No, Dom Pérignon is fine.’’
The waiter popped the cork and poured, and I wondered, as always, at Harley’s extravagance. Though we were good friends, this was still a lot to splash out. But she was impulsive and generous, and I knew she liked fine things.
She hoisted her glass. ‘‘Here’s to true love.’’
‘‘Cheers.’’ I raised the glass and drank.
I have a rube’s palate. The last champagne I’d drunk was at my cousin’s wedding in Oklahoma City, and I think it had an oil derrick on the label. But oh. This.
This wasn’t champagne; it was an epiphany. I knew I should drink it, destroy the bottle, and bang my head against the table until I got amnesia, because otherwise this was all I’d want to drink, ever, and then I’d go bankrupt.
"My God," I said.
Harley raised her glass again. ‘‘And here’s to unconventional love affairs.’’
I held the bubbles on my tongue, deciding how to reply. ‘‘If you’re talking about the age difference, I don’t consider it a big deal.’’
‘‘Me neither. We both like ’em young,’’ she said. ‘‘And different.’’
I said, ‘‘And how are things?’’
‘‘Things are fine. Things are sublime. Choirs of angels sing me to sleep at night.’’ She brought her glass up, stopped. ‘‘Wait. Are we talking about my sex life?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘It’s status quo. Shit flambé.’’ She drank her champagne. ‘‘I have as much of Cassie as she can give me, and that’s just the way it is. It’s . . . what does Jesse call it?’’
‘‘An FFL.’’ Fucking Fact of Life.
‘‘You got it, sister.’’
I didn’t know Cassie, Harley’s lover. I knew only what Harley told m
e: She played on the women’s tennis tour, and was fearful of coming out as a lesbian. From the light in Harley’s eyes when she spoke Cassie’s name, Harley was hooked.
She said, ‘‘Talking of FFLs, how’s your boy handling Brand showing up?’’
‘‘He’s focused. And he’s not a boy, Harley.’’
Her eyes quieted. ‘‘Sorry, you’re right. He’s twenty-seven, and older than most men are at fifty. My fault. I think of my biz-law students as kids, even years later.’’
Harley occasionally taught an undergraduate class at UCSB. Jesse had taken it, and, I gathered, so had Cassie— for extra credit.
She was pouring herself another glass of champagne when the door opened and Kenny Rudenski walked in. Scratch that. Kenny paused in the doorway, giving everyone in the bar time to admire him. He was wearing a motorcycle jacket, khakis, and heavy boots. The outfit was straight out of The Great Escape. He held a motorcycle helmet under one arm. He smiled and strolled to the table.
‘‘Harley.’’ He beamed at me. ‘‘Gidget.’’
He spun a chair around backward and sat down, straddling it. He set the helmet on the table as if it were a war trophy. Bring me the head of Steve McQueen.
He leaned my way. ‘‘I owe you an apology. The other night, I didn’t know you had a thing going with Jesse Blackburn. Sorry if I made things uncomfortable for you.’’
I looked at Harley. Had she set this up? She was staring at her champagne.
I said, ‘‘Thank you. But Jesse’s the one who deserves the apology.’’
‘‘Loyalty. I like that.’’ He pressed his thumb against a knot in the wood of the table and massaged it. ‘‘Anyway, I didn’t mean to get so hot.’’
‘‘All right.’’
His thumb worked the wood. He saw me looking at the helmet.
‘‘Old love. Raced motocross in my wild youth. You like motorcycles?’’ He nodded out the window. ‘‘Mine’s parked up the street. You want, I’ll take you for a ride. I’m perfectly safe, no bike crashes, I promise.’’
I stared him straight in the face, thinking, Did he just say that?
I said, ‘‘I’m taking a poll. Why do you think Franklin Brand has come back?’’