More translation.
“Of course,” I said, “we have to protect our children. We never throw them right into the water. We stay with them. Hold them. Wait until they are ready. Teach them to conquer the wave, to be stronger than the wave. With love, and talk, and playing games—giving permission to the child to swim. Teaching him to swim first in the small waves, then the bigger ones. Moving slowly, so the child is not frightened.”
“Sometimes,” said the long-haired woman, “it’s not good to swim. It’s dangerous.” To the others:“Muy peligroso. Sometimes you can drown.”
“That’s true. The thing is—”
“El mundo es peligroso,” said another woman.
The world is dangerous.
“Yes, it can be,” I said. “But do we want our children afraid all the time? Never swimming?”
A few headshakes. Doubtful looks.
“How?” said a woman who looked old enough to be a grandmother. “How can we make it not be dangerous?”
All of them looking at me, waiting. For my next words of wisdom. A cure.
Fighting back feelings of impotence, I said the things I’d planned to say. Offered small remedies, situational tinkering. Baby steps across a vast, cruel wasteland.
Afterward, when Linda and I were alone in her office, I said, “What do you think?”
“I think it went fine.”
I was sitting on the L-shaped sofa and she was picking dead leaves off a potted devil ivy.
“The thing that bugs me,” I said, “is that basically they’re right. The world they live in is dangerous. What could I tell them? Pretend it’s Dick-and-Jane territory and go merrily skipping along?”
“You do what you can, Alex.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t seem like much.”
“Hey,” she said, “what is this, role reversal? When I told you the same thing, you gave me a nice little speech about making a difference on an individual level.”
I shrugged.
She said, “C’mon, Doctor. Moping doesn’t become you.”
She came around behind me and placed her hand on the back of my neck. Her touch was cool and soothing. “Why so low all of a sudden, anyway?”
“I don’t know. Probably a combination of things.”Things that seemed out of context but had stuck in my mind. Snapshots in a homicide file, a little boy who’d be college-age by now. Things I didn’t want to talk about.
I said, “One thing that gets to me is knowing Latch will come out of this smelling sweet. He buttonholed me after the show, trying to play Mr. Sensitive Guy in front of his wife. I let it ride for a while, tried to get through to him that this impulsiveness isn’t what the kids need. That some of them had actually gotten scared by the concert. He couldn’t have cared less. I half-expected him to rip open his shirt and have on one of those you’ve-obviously-mistaken-me-for-someone-who-give-a-shit T-shirts underneath. So I lost my cool, let on that I knew all he cared about was making political points. That got a rise out of him. So now I’m a bipartisan loudmouth. I’ve made fast friends on both sides.”
She began massaging my neck. “So you’re not a politician. Good for you. He’s slime. He deserved it.”
“His wife just might agree with you. I got the distinct impression theirs isn’t the ultimate love match.”
“Know what you mean,” she said. “He introduced me to her, and I did pick up on a certain lack of warmth on her part. Maybe she’s got on one of those T-shirts herself. Under the designer duds. Did you see that rock?”
“Power to the people,” I said.
“Serves him right if she hates him—for marrying money. Serves both of them right. Darned Cadillac Commies.” She laughed. “I just hate it when Daddy’s correct.”
A moment of silence while her fingers kneaded my neck. Then she said, “Daddy. He’s my wave, you know. I’m still figuring out what to do about him: Can I ever forgive him? Can there ever be anything good again—any family?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“You’re pretty sure about that, huh?”
“Sure I’m sure. You’re a smart kid. Your instincts are good.”
“Smart kid. That so?” She put her face next to mine. “My instinct, right now, is to do something lewd in this office.”
“Like I said...”
“However,” she said, standing, “my better judgment —my superego—reminds me I’ve got work to do and a faculty meeting in twenty minutes.”
I said, “Aw, shucks,” and got up.
She pulled me to her and we embraced.
“You’re a sweet, sweet man,” she said. “And I’m glad you let me see you in a down mood, that you trusted me enough not to be Mr. Perfect.”
I kissed her neck.
She said, “Whats-her-name was crazy to let you go.” Then she tightened in my arms. “God, what a stupid thing to say. My mouth is really running—”
I silenced her with another kiss. When we broke apart, I said, “I want to see you tonight.”
“I’ve got homework.”
“Skip it. I’ll write you a note.”
“Bad influence.”
“I certainly hope so.”
23
I was home by four and picked up three messages. None from Howard Burden, one from his father inquiring whether Howard and I had connected yet, and a couple of throwaways from people wanting to sell me things I didn’t need. I put those aside and returned the last one—from a Superior Court judge named Steve Hupp, with whom I’d worked on several child-custody cases. I reached him in chambers. He wanted me to consult on a custody battle between a famous entrepreneur and a famous actress.
“I do all the famous ones, Alex,” he said. “Particularly wonderful people, these two. She claims he’s a psychopathic coke-sniffing pederast; he claims she’s a psychopathic coke-sniffing nymphomaniac. For all I know they’re both right. She’s got the kid in Switzerland. They’ll pay your expenses to fly over there and evaluate. You can work in some skiing while you’re over there.”
“Don’t ski.”
“Buy a watch, then. Or start a bank account. You’ll earn plenty on this one.”
“Attorneys on retainer?”
“Both sides. It’s been going on for over a year.”
“Sounds like a real mess.”
“Truthfully? It is.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass, Your Honor.”
“Thought you would. But if you have a change of heart, let me know. You can change the names, write a screenplay, and get rich.”
“So can you, Steve.”
“I’m doing it,” he said. “Got a script making the rounds right now at Universal—noble jurist takes on the system. Perfect for Michael Douglas. Things turn out right, I’ll be off the bench and on the set.” He laughed. “Right. Meanwhile, onward to stem the ever-rising tide of marital discord—you should see our dockets. How come people are so screwed up anyway, Alex?”
“How should I know?”
“We sent you to school to know that kind of stuff.”
“Maybe it’s poor water quality, Steve. Or not enough dietary fiber.”
At 4:45, I called Mahlon Burden. His machine answered and I told it I was still trying to reach Howard. Then I phoned Pierce, Sloan, and Marder and waited as the receptionist put me through to Howard Burden’s office.
A man’s voice answered, low-pitched and sluggish. “Burden. Speak.”
“Mr. Burden?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“This is Dr. Alex Delaware. I called before.”
“Yeah, I know who you are.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“It’s always a bad time.”
“Your father suggested I talk to you. About Hol—”
“I know what it’s about.”
“Let’s set up an appointment then—”
“How much is he paying you?”
“We haven’t discussed that.”
“Uh-huh. Doing the charity circuit? You a Sc
hweitzer protégé?”
“I know you’ve been through a lot and—”
“Cut,” he said. “Dump the script and be straight. You want to talk about Holly? I’m gonna be here all night anyway, you might as well be my coffee break. You show up any time before, say, ten-thirty, you can have ten minutes.”
Not much. But I sensed that ten minutes with this one would be interesting. “Where are you located?”
He rattled off an address in the sixteen-thousand block of Ventura Boulevard. Heart of Eucino. At this time of day, getting over the Glen into the Valley would take at least half an hour, add another twenty minutes braving the slog on Ventura, and I figured I’d be able to make it within an hour. Returning to the city would be faster. My date with Linda was for eight-thirty. Ample time.
I said, “I’ll be there within the hour.”
“Like I said, ten-thirty. Ten minutes.”
Encino had been built up since the last time I’d been there. It always seemed that way with Encino. Pierce, Sloan, and Marder: Consulting Actuaries. “Benefits and Pension Specialists” occupied the top floor of a narrow, seven-story pink limestone and mirrored-glass rectangle squeezed between a medical building with a Thai restaurant on the ground floor and a Rolls-Royce/Jaguar/Land Rover dealer.
The lobby was layered with rust-colored granite. There were two elevators on the south wall, both of them open. I rode up alone, stepped into a long hallway carpeted in gray plush and papered in white vinyl textured to look like troweled plaster. Track lights shone overhead. Mapplethorpe flower photos in Lucite frames lined the walls, looking disturbingly visceral in such a passionless place.
The main entrance was at the north end of the corridor, through a floor-to-ceiling wall of glass lettered in gilt that listed the partners of the actuarial firm and informed the uninitiated that Pierce, Sloan, and Marder had branches in San Francisco, Chicago, Atlanta, and Baltimore. I counted twenty-two partners in the L.A. office. Howard Burden’s name was fourth from the top. Not bad for a thirty-year-old with poor manners.
Watch those value judgments, Delaware. Maybe, but for grief, he was the Prince of Charm.
On the other side of the glass the reception area was brightly lit. And empty. The door was bolted by a heavy slab of polished brass. I knocked, felt the glass tremble. Waited. Knocked again. Waited some more. Knocked harder.
So much for my ten minutes. Nothing like a drive into the Valley at rush hour to get the old juices flowing.
Just as I turned to leave, one of the elevator doors opened and a man stepped out. He was corpulent and walked with a flat-footed waddle. Fortyish, five-eleven, totally bald on top, thin brown hair fringing the sides, florid skin, a bushy brown mustache carelessly trimmed. Sixty extra pounds, all of it soft, most of it hanging over his belt. Gold buckle on the belt that glinted as he approached. Long-sleeved white shirt, double-pleated navy slacks, black loafers, a blue tie patterned with lavender squares and loosened at the neck. All of it expensive-looking but it seemed as much a costume as DeJon Jonson’s getup—as if someone had dressed him up.
He huffed toward me, using his arms the way race-walkers do, carrying a ring of keys in one hand, a wet-looking sandwich wrapped in cellophane in the other. Under the cellophane, a wilted pickle clung to the sandwich for dear life.
“You Delaware?” His voice was deep, slightly hoarse. He rattled his keys. The chain had a Mercedes-Benz logo. His neck was furrowed and sweaty. There was a grease spot on the pocket of his shirt, just under the HJB monogram.
I’d been expecting someone who looked ten years younger. Trying to hide my surprise, I said, “Hello, Mr. Burden—”
“You said an hour. It’s only been”—he raised the sandwich hand and flashed a gold Rolex Oyster—“forty-eight minutes.”
He walked past me and unlocked the brass bolt, letting the glass door fly back at me. I caught it, followed him to the right of the reception desk and around the walnut wall. Behind it was another ten yards of gray carpet. He stopped at double doors. Gold letters on the left one said:
HOWARD J. BURDEN, A.B., M.A.
FELLOW, SOCIETY OF ACTUARIES
He pushed it open, race-walked through an outer office and into a large walnut-paneled room. Not much wood showed through; the walls were blanketed with diplomas, certificates, and photographs. The desk was heavy-looking, very shiny and inlaid with elm burl bordered in ebony. The desk top was shaped like the letter P and piled high with books, magazines, mail, interoffice envelopes, tilting piles of papers. Behind it was a high-backed blue leather chair; behind that, a credenza. In the center of the credenza was an IBM PC; on either side of the computer, more clutter.
Above the credenza a plate-glass window offered a northern view: the high-rise profile of Ventura Boulevard dipping past housing tracts and mini-malls and the stone-colored ribbon of the 134 Freeway, vibrating like an enervated nerve fiber. Then onward, toward the brown expanse past Sylmar that stretched to the base of the Santa Susana mountains. The mountaintops had begun to fade into evening. Wisps of cinnabar and silver from the west alluded to a glorious sunset that had never quite made it. Smog pigments. Pollution art.
Howard Burden saw me looking, drew the drapes, and sat down behind the desk. Shoving papers aside, he began unwrapping his sandwich. Corned beef and sauerkraut on rye, the bread half-sodden.
I looked for somewhere to sit. The two chairs opposite his desk were filled with documents. So was a long blue leather chesterfield couch running perpendicular to the window. Some of the stacks looked ready to topple. The muddle and disarray lent the room a frantic but human energy—so different from his father’s sterile sanctum. I permitted myself some sidewalk psychoanalysis.
Burden liberated the sandwich and took a big bite, not bothering to swallow before saying, “Just throw some of that shit on the floor.”
I cleared one of the chairs and sat down. He continued to eat, using a paper napkin to dab at the sauerkraut juice that trailed down his chin. I glanced over at the photos on the wall. Burden and a pleasant-looking blond woman with a penchant for sleeveless knit tops, white slacks, and Top-Siders. She appeared to be around thirty; in some of the shots he looked like her father. About half the photos also featured a little girl of around five. Dark-haired. Eyeglasses on her, too. Something familiar...
Happy family poses. Smiles that seemed genuine. Disneyland. Sea World. Universal Studios. A water park. Miniature golf. The three of them in frog hats, both parents hugging the little girl. She, clutching an all-day sucker. Eating ice cream cones together. The little girl in a school play, dressed as an elf. Graduating from kindergarten in a miniature cap and gown. I realized what had struck me about her. She resembled the driver’s license picture Milo had shown me. A young Holly with something to smile about.
I said, “You have a lovely family.”
He put down his sandwich and crumpled his napkin in a pudgy fist.
“Look,” he said, “let me lay my cards on the table right now: I’m doing this under duress. My father is a complete and total asshole. I don’t like him, okay? Any bullshit he may have handed you about him and me having anything in common is bullshit, okay? So the fact that you’re working for him puts you immediately on my shit list. You’ve got to work your way off, which I doubt is possible because you’re high on the list. The only reason I agreed to see you is because he was calling the fucking office ten times a day, bugging the shit out of my secretary. And when she wouldn’t put him through, hounding Gwen—my wife—at home. I knew if I didn’t give him his way, he’d drop in, the way he did before, making an ass out of himself, embarrassing me. Six years I’ve been here, three promotion parties plus an open house, and he never showed up. We haven’t goddam talked in five years; Amy hasn’t seen a birthday gift from the bastard. Now all of a sudden he wants something, here he is.”
“When was this? His showing up?”
“About a month ago. I was in a meeting. He waltzed right past the secretary, came in here, sat and waited and
played his goddam chamber music on a cassette deck for an hour. Anyone else, she would have called Security and had him thrown out on his ass. Which would have been okay with me. But she didn’t know that. All she knew was that he’s her boss’s father—what the fuck can she do? So she let him stay and when I got here, he made like it was nothing—he fucking invades me and it’s nothing.”
Time Bomb Page 30