by Alex Austin
In a quarter hour, they were motoring past the breakwater. On the rocks, fishermen held their casts to follow the boat’s progress.
“Hold on now,” said Albert as they reached the open sea. The engine went from a throb to a roar as the bow rose. The acceleration pushed Hugh deep into his seat. The hull slapped the water, flinging up great white bells of ocean.
For a moment Hugh was caught in the exhilaration of speed. The shore receded. They were on the open sea. They continued at that speed for another five minutes. Albert pulled back on the throttle.
“Here, take over. I’m going below to mix up another drink.”
In Albert’s absence, Hugh steered due west. When after five minutes Albert didn’t return, Hugh moved the wheel a degree to the right. The boat responded. The speedometer read fifteen knots per hour. Albert had had it up to sixty. Hugh increased the speed. He drew in a lungful of the moist, salt-drenched air. The sky was the faintest blue and went on forever. Over the rushing air, he heard his sons’ voices.
“This is a cool boat,” said Hitoshi.
“Let me drive,” said Takumi.
Were you here, boys? Was this the boat that took you?
“Get the fuck away,” said a muffled voice.
Hugh backed off on the throttle. He looked around for Albert, though it wasn’t a man’s voice Hugh had heard. He had heard a voice. It wasn’t in his head. Someone had shouted. He looked at the deck.
Albert came back carrying two Bloody Marys. He handed one to Hugh, who took it without protest. Hugh sipped the drink as he piloted.
“Three hundred thousand is a deal for this,” said Albert.
“Like buying a home,” said Hugh.
“Better than a home. You can’t buy a shitbox in LA for $300,000. The slip is no more than homeowner’s fees: three hundred a month. No property taxes.”
A quarter mile away a pelican glided across the ocean’s surface.
“How does it handle in rough water. I mean storms.”
“Like a bullet through plasterboard.”
“Have you always kept the boat at the marina?”
“Most of the time. Redondo now and then. San Diego once.”
Hugh swallowed. “In 2000?”
“It was in the late nineties. Could have been 2000, I guess. Why?”
“I thought I saw it there. Oceanside.” He wondered if Albert would see his heart ramming through his breastplate.
“This boat sticks in the memory, but still that’s a long time.”
“Yeah . . . a long time.”
Albert took a step back, looking over Hugh as if he were about to take him on in a fight. “What do you do for a living?” asked Albert.
“I’m—I’m a teacher.”
“Professor?”
“Middle school.”
“And they pay you that kind of money?”
“I’ve got the money.”
“Independently wealthy?”
“Yes, in a way.”
“Give her the gas then.”
“That’s all right.”
“Give her the gas.”
Hugh eased back the throttle. The engine roared. The bow leaped, obscuring the sea.
“If you turned the wheel fifteen degrees now, what do you think would happen?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’d flip us. We’d both be dead men.”
The hull beat on the sea, sending up white flames. Hugh pulled the throttle. The boat left the water altogether, gliding above like a seabird.
“Easy now,” said Albert, putting his hand over Hugh’s and pushing back the throttle. The bow dropped. Hugh was breathing hard. He steadied himself.
“Was Pearl its original name?”
“That was mine. Before that she was the—Jesus, what the hell was that name?”
Pearl . . . earl . . . real. The name floated into Hugh’s consciousness as if from the bottom of the sea. “Reality,” said Hugh.
“Reality! That’s right. Reality. How the hell did you know?”
“I told you. I’ve seen this boat before.”
“When?”
“Summer of 2000.”
Albert squinted, shifted in his seat, glanced sharply at Hugh, and then shrugged, his face drained of interest.
“Funny name for a boat,” said Hugh. “Why did your father choose it?”
“No idea,” snapped Albert.
“Would it be possible to see below decks?” asked Hugh, as Albert finished tying the boat to the dock.
Albert glanced at his watch. “Love to show you, but I’m running late. Got to meet my lawyer in Century City.”
“Just a quick look?”
Albert shook his head.
“I’ll give you an answer within twenty-four hours,” said Hugh.
“Five minutes. In and out,” said Albert, leading Hugh below.
“Galley and eating bar,” said Albert with a sweep of his arm. “Pardon the—untidiness.” He pointed forward to a small closed door. “In the forepeak you’ve got the guest berth. Queen-size bed and shower.”
Hugh grinned. “May I see it?”
“Not today,” said Albert. “Let’s take a look at the salon and then I’ll show you the master stateroom.”
Hugh gazed at the forward door, which seemed to expand as if about to explode in the way they depicted such a thing in cartoons. Albert called for him to follow, but Hugh froze as from behind the door came a distinct cry.
“Guest,” explained Albert with a wink.
“Ah,” said Hugh. Of course. Why not?
“Impressive,” said Hugh, as he followed Albert into the salon.
“Custom-made for the boat.” Albert flopped down on the salon’s leather couch and slapped the fabric. Hugh walked to a bulletin board covered with photos which depicted the Abe family on the boat in different marine settings. There were many children, who grew older or younger with each photo, but his sons were not among them. Perhaps Abe had been following his boys for some time. Perhaps it was because they were beautiful half-Japanese boys, his predilection. From the photos, Hugh picked out Albert’s father. White-haired and trim, the older man was deferred to by the others whom the camera captured. Albert was in several photographs: a slimmer, healthier Albert, whose Asian features were more discernible. Had Hugh seen either of them twelve years ago? He closed his eyes and let the projector display a hundred scenes from those days, but there was no Abe, no Albert. At the top right corner of the bulletin board were several photos that contrasted with the other happy scenes: a funeral. A large headstone, the family gathered around a gravesite, a procession of cars driving through the gates of the cemetery: Ornate letters spelled out High Meadow. Hugh stepped closer to the photographs.
“My old man’s funeral,” said Albert over Hugh’s shoulder.
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“The cemetery. Where is it?”
“Simi Valley. Why?”
“Nothing.”
But it was not nothing. He remembered the brochure in the trunk. He remembered Gina’s voice, the regular Thursday evening phone calls. But hell, how many people were buried at Forest Lawn? Perhaps High Meadow could rest as many thousands.
Albert clapped Hugh’s back. “Sorry, but I’ve got to throw you out.” He directed Hugh back toward the galley. Hugh stopped to gaze at the forward door.
“Here you go,” said Albert, stretching over the rail to hand Hugh a manila envelope. “It’s got all the information you’ll ever want on the boat. Copies of maintenance, repairs. Everything.”
A boy of fourteen skateboarded down the dock. Hugh followed his progress, glancing at Albert, who was also looking at the boy.
“Good-looking kid,” said Hugh.
“Hey, Satch, come here,” Albert called to the kid.
The boy leaned back on his skateboard, skidding to a stop. He kick-turned and faced Albert. “Yeah?”
“I’m missing an iPod.”
“Don’t look at me.”
“You or one of your buddies.”
“Ain’t me.”
“Come here.”
The boy picked up his skateboard and strutted over.
“Here’s the deal. You get me my iPod back or you find yourself another boat to crash in when your father is looking to kick your ass.”
“Dude, I wouldn’t rip you off.”
“Find it.”
“I’ll ask around.”
“Yeah, you ask around.”
The boy shrugged, dropped his skateboard and zipped away.
“Sorry, man. What were you saying?”
“Nothing,” said Hugh, his insides in knots.
Albert tapped the envelope in Hugh’s hand. “So, you’re interested?”
“It’s a hell of a boat.”
“Good. By the way, what happened to your face?”
“Surfboard.”
“Be careful, man.”
Hugh set his foot on the ladder. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Good.” Albert checked his watch. “Gotta run.”
Hugh walked down the dock, glancing back to see Albert descending into the boat’s interior.
On Mother’s Beach, Hugh sat on the sand near the children’s play area, from where he could see the Pearl’s transom and some of the dock. But he had a clear view of the walkway and the entrance to the tenants’ parking lot.
No more than ten minutes had gone by when Albert strode down the walkway and entered the parking lot. Hugh waited another ten minutes.
At the gate to the dock, Hugh didn’t hesitate, vaulting the gate like a yachtsman who didn’t have time for such bullshit. Smiling at all those he passed, Hugh boarded the Pearl without incident or question.
Clasping the door handle, Hugh turned. “Bless you, Albert,” he whispered as he drew back the door. The light was on in the galley. The guest berth door was still shut.
Hugh took out his cell phone and set it near the sink.
He knocked on the forward door. Nothing. He knocked again.
“Go away, Albert,” said a voice from the interior.
“I’m not Albert. It’s all right.”
Something clattered in the room, followed by a thump.
“Do you need help?” asked Hugh.
“Who the—”
The door swung open. A woman of about forty, her body wrapped in a red sheet, stared in bewilderment at Hugh.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.
Hugh stepped back, unsettled by the sheet as much as by the woman. Blood red. Lurid. “I’m sorry. I came to see the boat. I think I left my cell phone here. I just came back to—”
Hugh smiled with embarrassment and looked around. “Jesus, I see it. There it is.” He scrambled over to the sink.
When he turned back, cell phone in hand, the woman had stepped out of the room and the sheet had fallen a couple of inches, partially exposing her breasts, across which a violet rash spread. Her perfume made Hugh’s head throb.
“Want a drink?” asked the woman, tightening the sheet but not pulling it up.
“All right, sure,” said Hugh.
“Let me change.”
Leaving the door open, she dropped the sheet on a chair. Her body appeared and disappeared as she gathered some clothes. She came out a minute later in an oversized T-shirt, no less revealing than the sheet. The rash seemed to spill over the T’s neck, but it may have been just a stain. When she closed the bedroom door with her hip, he was glad.
“I’m Janet,” she said, moving to the bar. “What you in the mood for?”
“A beer is fine.”
“I’ve told you my name, what’s yours?” she asked as she scanned the refrigerator’s shelves.
“Hugh,” he replied, forgetting he was Pirie.
“Hugh. Hugh Grant. Hugh Hefner. Hugh Laurie. Do you watch that show?”
“House? I’ve seen episodes.”
She popped a beer and handed it to him. He watched her pour a vodka and tonic. Drink in hand she moved close to Hugh.
“Skol.”
“Skol,” Hugh repeated.
She sipped her drink, looking at Hugh over the rim of her glass. “I love that show,” she said.
“It’s very funny.”
“Yeah. I like all those mysterious diseases. If I ever get sick, I mean, really sick, I hope it’s from a mysterious disease.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve had a dull, dull life. If I’m going to go out, I want it to be with a little suspense.” She tilted her head forward and moved closer, brushing her breasts against his chest.
May I lick your rash, ma’am? Just tell me something.
“Aren’t you afraid Albert will come back?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t mind.”
“Sexually open?”
“Albert or me?”
“Albert.”
She touched Hugh’s lips. “Albert is a libertine. You know what that is?”
“Anything goes?”
“You got a Facebook page?” she asked.
The bedroom door opened and a breeze swept the cabin. The red sheet had fallen to the floor, fluttered under the draft. “No. I don’t use that stuff.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I avoided e-mail as long as I could.”
“Why?”
Hugh shrugged. “Just not me, I guess.”
She squinted. “You look like somebody. Eric Clapton. Anybody tell you that?”
“Once or twice.” The rash was creeping up her neck. Gonna take an ocean of calamine lotion . . . “So with Albert anything goes?”
She pushed her index finger into Hugh’s mouth. He tasted confectioner’s sugar.
“Not anything. Not anything.” She grinned. “No animals or that.”
The fucking sheet billowed, grew wings. “Boys?”
“Boys?” She took her finger out of Hugh’s mouth and pressed it to her tongue. She sucked for a second and then drew it out. “Am I wasting myself on you?” she asked.
“What makes you say that?”
“You into boys?”
“No. I was wondering if Albert was.”
“It’s an odd question.”
“He’s not, then?”
“No way, José. I suppose he’d be into young girls if he could get them, but he can’t. He’s stuck with me. But you could do worse.” She put her hand against Hugh and kissed him. He held the kiss for a minute and then slipped his lips to her ear.
“Nakamura Reality,” he whispered.
“Umm,” she said.
“Mean anything?”
“Sure. That’s where me and Albert met.”
He eased her from him. “What?”
“Albert and me got together at NR.”
“You worked there?”
“Sure. I was a clerk.”
“And Albert?”
“A honcho—though he didn’t know shit. That’s what happens when your father runs the company. Nepotism, right?”
“Right—fuck. Mr. Abe was like the CEO?”
“I guess. Something like that.”
“Does Albert still work at Nakamura?”
“Nope. They booted his ass out when his father died. Then they threw me out for good measure. Too bad, it was a fun job. I met Steven Spielberg once.” She grabbed Hugh’s ass and squeezed. “You a runner?”
“Yes. Yes I am.”
Chapter 22
Fingal’s Cave/28
A CLUE
For the next two years, Yuudai lived in despair. Sumiko, inconsolable, divorced Yuudai and returned to Japan to live with her father in double mourning. Yuudai quit his Hollywood job to spend his days stapling photos of his sons to telephone poles and bulletin boards throughout the lower Sierra. He followed up every lead, haunted police stations and hospitals. He visited the camping area a hundred times, stalking the paths in the most violent seasons, searching for a clue, a sign, the echo of a voice, but the forest was silent.
After two years, he gave up. His
sons were dead. Either at the bottom of some remote canyon or in some shallow backyard grave.
For another ten years, he lived without solace.
At the end of that twelfth year, as winter turned to spring, he once more returned to the site of their disappearance. Not much had changed, and when he walked into the roadhouse—which he had avoided during his two years of searching—he half expected to see his old girlfriend sitting on her stool, her flannel shirt thin and faded. The seat was empty, but the bartender remembered Yuudai, and that sad night. Yuudai got drunk, cried and raged at the woman who tempted him. Where did she live? He wanted to put his hands to her throat. The bartender calmed him down, revealing that the woman was a stranger. He had seen her that night and never again.
It was as though her purpose was to draw Yuudai into his fate.
Yuudai set his chin on his fists, dispiritedly scanned the bottles of booze and promotional items, yellowed cartoon strips and shelf of dusty children’s toys. The dinosaurs remained but one: the triceratops. Well . . . Yuudai closed his eyes. There was a tap on the bar. “She left these.”
Yuudai looked down to see a pair of glasses.
“I tried to catch her to give them back but she was already burning rubber. A sweet little red Mustang.”
Yuudai lifted the eyeglasses. “She’s never been back?”
“Nope.”
“If she ever does . . .”
“Not going to hurt her, are you?”
Yuudai shook his head. “I’d just like to ask her a question.” Yuudai stared at the woman’s glasses and then took off his own glasses. The wall of license plates blurred. He put on Demi’s. The license plates still blurred without a degree of difference.
“Maybe this will help,” said the bartender, setting a scrap of paper on the bar. Yuudai exchanged glasses and looked down at the paper.
“What’s this?”
“Her license plate number. I caught it as she was taking off. I thought I might try to contact her to get her back the glasses. Never bothered.”
“How—”
The bartender gestured to the wall. “My hobby. I dig license plates.”
Yuudai read the letters: CSNDRA.
“Thank you.”
Chapter 23
Hugh took an outside table. The temperature was 110 but the table was in the shade and the water mister functioning, rendering the heat bearable. He wiped cigar ash from the table and set down his coffee and Albert’s manila envelope. He took the lid off the coffee, placed it on a brown napkin and sipped from the open cup. Hearing a familiar crackling sound, he looked up. At the trash can, an elderly, frail, sun-blasted woman crushed a can. She deposited it in a bloated bag in her rusty shopping cart, which squeaked like a mouse under each new weight. Dressed in a white toga of sorts, the woman was speckled with dust, but not dirty. Plagued by tremors and unhealed wounds, homeless and harmless, she pushed her cart along the boulevard and never begged, never asked for a penny or a smoke. It was to her that Hugh gave the heap of empty plastic bottles collected in the trunk of the Volvo. He would wait until he saw her wheeling her cart, hustle to the car, gather his plastic and set it in her path, as if God had placed it there for her to find. Today God had no empty bottles, but he smiled at her as she deposited another treasure in her bag, and she smiled back.