The Perpetual Summer

by Adam Walker Phillips

  “You’re going out the front door?” I reminded her. In her haste, she had forgotten about Hector sitting in the car outside.

  “Of course I am,” she said while standing in the foyer. “He doesn’t control what I do.” She quickly turned around and slipped through the back slider, just like she had when she had originally come in.

  I slept in on Saturday, which for a corporate guy meant seven-thirty. I brewed up a strong pot of coffee and enjoyed the cool morning air coming through the kitchen window. One thing about Los Angeles is that despite some excruciatingly hot days, the nights and mornings are always pleasant. It was overcast, a staple of Southern California summers, and the gray sky hung heavy above. I took my first cup of coffee to the living room and gazed out the front window.

  The car was still there. The black roof and hood glistened with morning dew. I could see the outline of Hector’s frame through the passenger window. Sometime in the night he had rolled up the driver’s window, probably from the cold. He shifted in the seat in a futile attempt to discover that one position that didn’t cause his body to ache. It had to have been a very uncomfortable night’s sleep.

  I grabbed the coffee, settled in a chair by the window, and with my slippered feet propped up on the sill, I watched the car from the comfort of my house over three very hot, very satisfying cups of coffee.

  After a leisurely shower, a little bit of time online to pay some bills, one load of whites, and a quick cleanup of the house, I went outside and sat in the backseat of the sedan.

  “Okay, let’s talk,” I said and offered him a hot cup of coffee.

  Hector stretched his stiff body awake and rubbed both his eyes with fat knuckles. He took my coffee but didn’t turn around to face me. After a night in the car he looked ten years older than his already advanced age.

  “We both have jobs to do,” I stated. “We can continue to do this silly little dance that isn’t going to accomplish much of anything, or we can find a way to work together and save each of us a whole lot of grief. You need to keep tabs on me and report back to your boss. I get it. And I need to do my thing and not feel like a goddamned five-year-old with a helicopter parent. So here’s what I propose. You come with me on every meeting. If you want to drive me, so be it. But when I ask you to do something—whatever it is—you do it. If I want you to wait outside, you wait outside. If I need to see someone on my own, you respect that. In return, I promise to keep no secrets from you. And I am going to start this morning. I know about the incident you were involved in back in 1963. I know it was a relative of Gao Li’s and that Valenti might have saved you from doing time. Right now I don’t see any connection to what is going on today so I’m fine leaving that alone.”

  There was no reaction. Hector stared into the cup held tightly in his hands. It looked like he was trying to extract every last bit of comfort he could from the warm coffee.

  “Do you accept my offer?” I asked.

  Hector finished off the coffee in one long, satisfying gulp and handed me the empty cup.

  “Okay,” he said.

  THE TOURIST TRADE

  We met at an organic, single-sourced coffee shop in Silver Lake where they individually brewed you a cup after an interminable discourse on the genealogy of the family who grew the beans we were about to consume. I wasn’t in the mood and cut the barista off mid-speech and ordered the house blend. The guy then went into shock as he watched Hector stir enough sugar into his cup to achieve the viscosity of strawberry preserves.

  “You should really try it first,” lamented the young man behind the counter. “It’s not at all as bitter as the coffee you make at home.”

  Hector acknowledged the comment by topping his cup up to the brim with half-and-half. We then joined Sami at a small table on the patio.

  “Greetings,” the perpetually happy man said as he beckoned us to sit down. “I cherish the opportunity to spend time with both of you.”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” I told him.

  The invitation to meet wasn’t entirely on the level, so I needed to play along for a while. I had told Sami that I was interested in sitting down and talking over some “heavy issues” but what I really wanted to learn was any inside information he had on Meredith and Jeanette.

  Sami eagerly took the bait and suggested we meet at the coffee shop. He sat Indian-style on an already uncomfortable aluminum chair. That, paired with a gingham shirt and flip-flops, presented a very spiritual image. True to form, Sami spent most of the time talking about himself rather than trying to understand whatever “issue” was ailing me. He explained his personal “journey” through a rhetorical framework for which he was both the interviewer and interviewee. Each question he posed to himself was asked in such a manner that it could elicit only an affirmative response.

  “Was I finally ready to greet each day with a sense of purpose?” he asked, replaying the internal dialogue he had some years ago. “Yes, I was. Did I want the happiness that had so far eluded me? Yes, I did.”

  The third time he asked one of those types of questions, this one about it being the time to discover the secret to achieving a fulfilled life, I burst in and answered for him:

  “Yes, it was!” I shouted.

  Sami smiled knowingly at my enlightenment on his enlightenment. “And so that was how I found my higher purpose,” he announced proudly.

  “And what exactly is that purpose?” I asked.

  “I uncover one’s artistic potential,” he explained.

  “Interesting,” I said because I could think of nothing else to say. In the corporate world, that word was code for “Your work has absolutely no merit.”

  Sami described with enthusiasm how within every being there is a pool of artistic potential. And that just like the earth’s own springs there are some rare instances when the water naturally bubbles up to the surface. But for the vast majority of us, that pool lies untapped, often deep down inside. We spend a lifetime never realizing the artist in all of us.

  It was the familiar patter of the self-help guru—the concept that potential is always there; it’s just our own unintended actions that are keeping it from being released. That kind of claptrap nonsense soothes many an unsatisfied mind. Better it was to be told that you had the talent but that you were holding it back from its true potential rather than accept the cold reality that we are all marginally talented in some fashion and that few have the will to actually do something with it.

  None of it resonated with me but it most certainly would have with someone else.

  “Was Jeanette one of your clients?” I asked.

  “She is,” he corrected in the present tense.

  “Have you heard from her?” I probed. “Her mom said something about her running off?”

  Sami uncrossed his legs and shifted in his seat.

  “I really shouldn’t discuss a family matter,” he told me but then made a very subtle glance in Hector’s direction.

  I gave it a moment before reminding Hector that the parking meter needed filling outside.

  “We got time,” he said.

  “I think you should fill it,” I repeated.

  He knew what I was asking for but that didn’t mean he liked it.

  “Remember our deal,” I reminded him.

  Hector shot Sami a cold look before reluctantly getting up and leaving us so we could talk privately.

  “There’s a lot of negative energy in the house,” Sami started without any prodding. “It’s not good.”

  “Over what exactly?”

  “An article that came out last night.”

  “What kind of article?”

  “It was in one of the online gossip magazines,” he explained. I gave Sami space to elaborate. “Those things are just filled with hate.”

  “Yeah, I don’t much care for them either,” I commiserated. “What was the article about?”

  He gave it time for the drama to ramp up: “Jeanette,” he stated and then his voice drifted into a whisper, �
�and the baby.”

  “Baby?” I repeated as my mind processed the new development. I recalled the text Meredith got at my house the previous evening and assumed it was somehow connected to the article being released. Her response last night was even more curious now that I knew the contents of the text. She seemed almost happy that it was published.

  “Did you know she was pregnant?”

  Sami looked at the table and his silence told me he had known.

  “Everyone knew,” he explained. There was shame in his voice.

  I sat in the back of Hector’s sedan and read the gossip blog entry on my phone. It was a short blurb about one “naughty little girl” of a “gazillionaire” getting herself knocked up. There was a reference to the museum fight in case anyone didn’t pick up which gazillionaire it was referring to. It had the typical snarky sign-off that must have sent Valenti over the edge with rage.

  I glanced at the back of Hector’s head. If, as Sami had said, everyone knew about Jeanette’s pregnancy, then that meant Hector knew but withheld it from me despite our recent agreement. I wanted to confront him immediately except I needed him at that moment. The latest development had given me an idea that the once-random Victorian home in Alhambra wasn’t so random anymore.

  As we approached the house, I handed Hector a security badge from a former associate who’d been terminated for stealing milk from the communal fridge. Policy for a termination was to escort the fired associate to the elevator and to take their badge so they couldn’t get back onto the floor. The associate was a middle-aged white woman from Burbank, but I made Hector put it on anyway, even though he didn’t look anything like her.

  “If you act like you know what you’re doing, people will believe it,” I instructed him as I pounded on the metal gate. “People fall for badges all the time.”

  The same impassive face answered the door. This time I simply grabbed hold of the badge attached to my belt and zip-lined it in front of her face, so close that she couldn’t read the words. She leaned back to get a better look but by that time I had muscled past her and stepped into the foyer. Behind me, I heard the zip line of Hector’s badge being presented, and he cleverly added “Health Inspectors” to the ruse and followed me into the home.

  The once-grand parlor was grand no more. It had been carved up into three or four units separated by makeshift walls and curtains suspended from the ceiling. The room smelled of sour milk and disinfectant. Murmuring and laughter and the faint cries of hungry babies reverberated through the old walls.

  My white skin, navy sportcoat, and blue plastic badge convinced the occupants, at least for the moment, that I was some official from the city of Alhambra. Hector in his black ensemble was better suited as a representative from the coroner’s office but for now it was enough to cause confusion and some doubt. We took that opportunity to search the premises for Jeanette.

  As we cruised through the rooms, I pointed to random things like exposed wiring and dirty medical devices and sometimes to just blank spots on the floor.

  “Insufficient firewall,” I called out. “Improper wiring. Occupancy clustering.” With each mention, Hector scribbled them down on the blank forms we used to screen new job candidates. A black portfolio holding the sheets of paper helped sell it.

  “PL5501?” Hector called back.

  “5502,” I corrected.

  We worked our way through the endless maze of “hospital” beds but didn’t see Jeanette. All of the occupants were of Asian descent and no one seemed to speak any English. Most of the beds were surrounded by family and flowers and foil balloons and had that infectious joy of being around a new life. In the final room on the ground floor we found a family surrounding a young woman, a girl really, but in this cubbyhole there was no joy, just hushed tones and the specter of the empty crib nearby.

  Hector and I worked our way up to the second floor. At the top of the landing glared the woman from the entrance and two orderlies stood behind her. I tried the badge one more time but it had lost its effect and the ensemble didn’t budge. So I budged by them. As hands grabbed at me and my coat, I gave up the pretense of the city official and just started shouting for Jeanette. I heard the struggling voice of Hector doing the same. I caught a glimpse as he took one of the orderlies and launched the bulky frame down the hall. The old man still had some get-up in him.

  All it took was one person to doubt us and suddenly everyone came to their rescue. People in hospital scrubs poured out of rooms and I felt like I was going to be ripped to shreds by all the hands grabbing at my coat and face.

  “Jeanette!” I shouted, pulling at the arms that tried to hold me back from moving toward the last set of rooms.

  “Jeanette!” I heard Hector yelling at the other end of the hall.

  I fought my way forward as they ripped the coat off my back. That bought me a couple of extra feet as they stumbled and were forced to regain hold of me. I took a swing at someone and that bought me a few more feet. But it was short-lived as the circle closed around me. I put my head down and bullied forward, and as I passed each room, I angled my body to see the occupants inside. It was more of the same, but I had to make sure. At last I came to the final room. By then it felt like the entire complex was riding on my back. My knees gave out and I crumbled to the floor and everyone else crumpled on top of me. Through the melee of arms and legs, I peeked into the last room and saw a familiar face—the rotund Filipina who worked as an aide at the convalescent home where Valenti’s ex-wife lived.

  We locked eyes for a brief moment, but it was long enough for the surprise to register in her dull eyes. I held her gaze as long as I could, conveying whatever kind of warning I could before I was dragged away.

  Hector and I were summarily deposited onto the concrete front yard. My coat and badge were lost. Hector’s suit was intact but his Brylcreem hair was in a chaotic state and indicated he’d had a tough go of it, as gale-force winds couldn’t disturb that coif. We scrambled to our feet and back to the black sedan down the street. We leaned against the hood, took in each other’s condition, and let out a belly-emptying laugh. Not because there was anything particularly funny about what we just went through, but because for the first time it just felt like we were getting closer to bringing the girl home.

  Hector’s pleasure faded quickly. He took on a sullen expression and looked like he wanted to tell me something.

  “You all right?” I prodded.

  “I didn’t tell you this before,” he started, “but maybe I should have. It’s about Jeanette.”

  Hector recalled the day that Jeanette went missing. She had taken a car service to the Valenti compound and was inside with the man himself for quite a while. Hector was replacing a taillight when she appeared at his side and asked if he could drive her home.

  “She was crying,” he told me.

  “Did she say why?”

  “I didn’t ask. I just drove her back to her mom’s.”

  When they pulled up, she didn’t immediately get out of the car. She lingered in the backseat like she wanted to say something and after some time asked him if he had kids.

  “I told her I did—one girl and one boy. Three grandchildren, too. She then asked me if I was a good father. I said I didn’t know. That maybe she should ask my kids.”

  Hector apologized for not telling me this earlier, but in his act of contrition, while sincere, it wasn’t exactly clear to me what he was apologizing for.

  “I never told you she was pregnant,” he said.

  “You knew she was pregnant just from that one exchange in the car?” I asked incredulously.

  “You don’t have kids, do you?” he threw back.

  “No.”

  Hector said nothing more, as if that was enough proof. Behind it was the implication that I shouldn’t question someone in a club of which I wasn’t a member. And this member of the club was coming to an unsatisfactory conclusion about Jeanette’s foray into motherhood.

  “You don’t think she ha
d her baby in there?” he asked, hoping I would tell him that she didn’t.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  We hung around for a little while to see if we could spy the Filipina nurse coming out of the building, but she never showed. There were too many orderlies who knew our faces, and we decided not to risk it any further and leave the area. I made a move to get into the backseat.

  “Sit in front,” he instructed.

  A WOMAN’S SCREAM

  We continued east to Arcadia where the owner of the Victorian property had its office. My old real estate agent was growing tired of tracking down information for me on houses that I never intended to buy, but she couldn’t risk telling me so on the off chance I was legitimately interested in playing the market.

  Hector and I found the building, which was more a storefront than an actual office. On its left was a brilliantly lit dumpling house doing a brisk business before lunch had even started. From the looks of the clientele and cars in the lot, it catered to scores of young Asians capping off a night of cruising and clubs with steaming baskets of pork shui mai. On its right was an old lady’s brassiere shop that hadn’t changed the display window in thirty years and was the heroic stalwart from an era and community that wasn’t coming back.

  We pulled into an open slot and studied the storefront. The door and windows were heavily tinted and obscured whatever “business” lay beyond it. We went up to the front entrance but the door was locked and our knocks went unanswered. I cupped my hands over the glass to try to see beyond the tint but got nothing but black. I stepped back and noticed faces in the reflection of the glass. I turned to see a group of young Asian men surrounding us. In the middle of the circle was Gao Li.

  Gao’s initial reaction surprised me. He was more afraid than angry and he glanced around the parking lot like he expected there to be more people coming.

  “Where’s the cavalry?” he asked, but I didn’t understand the reference. When he realized there was none, he got his legs under him and returned to his old self. “You’re blocking my door, asshole.”