Below the Line

by Howard Michael Gould

  Kitty eventually remarried a childless plant manager for McDonnell Douglas and suddenly decided that family was the most important thing in the world, but by that point the girls were too old for reclamation, Paula a junior in high school and her big sister already in her third year at Scripps. Still, they assembled every Thanksgiving, and a year or so ago, to honor Kitty’s seventieth birthday, the Roses and Waxes hired a photographer for a posed portrait of the combined family, which Paula showed now to Waldo and Lorena. Kitty and her husband, Wally, sat before the standard mottled cyclorama, flanked by the Roses on the left and the Waxes on the right, all in matching burgundy polos and khakis, looking like a wholesome family singing act from the last century. Paula said, “This was the first time Stevie was old enough for Daron to pay her any attention.”

  “Yeah, because she was old enough to buy drugs from him,” said Joel, returning from the bedroom. “Someone should break his ankles with a sledgehammer.” Waldo didn’t know how fast Xanax kicked in, but it didn’t sound fast enough.

  Lorena said, “What else should we know about Brenda and Roy?”

  “I can tell you everything you need to know about them in two words,” said Joel, plopping into a seat beside Paula and crossing his arms. “They’re Republicans.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Mount St. Lorena was getting close to blowing; he could feel it. They’d been bickering since they left the Roses, and nothing was working out for her. First they couldn’t agree on a place to eat: he wanted to start Googling toward something sufficiently green in the Valley; she wanted Jack in the Box. Unable to compromise, they started out for Costa Mesa hungry. Waldo was better built for unfed stretches than she was and she grew cranky first. Then she insisted they follow Waze’s recommendation and take the 405 rather than the downtown route Waldo instinctively preferred, only to have traffic stop dead at the top of the Sepulveda Pass. As soon as she fought her way into the carpool lane, cars started cruising by on her right. Down by Wilshire she shifted back over, only to see the pattern reverse. Waldo wisely kept silent.

  When the congestion didn’t loosen, even after LAX, she erupted. “I want out of this. I’m serious: let the cops find her, or let the Roses hire somebody else. And Wax—fuck, Waldo, I want to stay clear. Connected like he is? What am I going to do if he does get my ticket pulled? Be a meter maid? Work in a flower shop? Think I’d be good at that?” She looked over at him but he knew better than to answer. “You’re going to say I have to tough out shit like this. If I want to get bigger than peep shows.” That was the right answer, but he was careful not to even shrug with his eyes. Still, she said, “You know what, Waldo? Shut the fuck up.”

  A couple of minutes later she jerked into the exit lane at Hawthorne. “You’re going to watch me eat a Jumbo Jack. And curly fries.” Waldo still hadn’t said a word. “Asshole.”

  * * *

  • • •

  While Lorena drove, Waldo called hospitals to cover the traditional bases. Daylight was gone by the time they reached the address Paula gave them, a luxury apartment complex called Puesta del Sol. Cruising past, they spotted two ways in: a gated garage, which would handle most of the residents’ entries and exits, plus a double glass door for visitors and deliveries, with a vestibule and a maroon-jacketed security man at a desk, which looked like a pass-through to offices.

  They both wanted to arrive at Daron’s door unannounced but found themselves in disagreement yet again, this time over how to get there. Waldo thought they should loiter in the shadows near the garage and duck in behind the next exiting car, then do the same to slip past the inevitable security door beyond. Lorena was sure she could get them inside quicker by walking in the front entrance alone and talking her way past the half-assed security man, then finding her way to the garage and letting Waldo in through the gated pedestrian door. Waldo, his empty stomach starting to growl, gave in again and let her try it her way.

  Lorena parked and headed for the front entrance. Waldo found a dark spot under a fern pine and perched on a short ivied wall to wait for the vehicle gate to rise, sure he’d get inside first and show her he was right. But he wasn’t: in less than a minute Lorena was opening the pedestrian door and calling his name in a stage whisper. “How’d you do that?” he said, following her through the garage.

  “Shit, I keep telling you: men are easy.”

  In the complex’s North building, they took the elevator up and found number 421. Waldo stepped to the side; Lorena stood in front of the eyehole and knocked. “Daron?” The door opened. Sandy hair hung over Daron’s eyes and there were patches of unshaven fuzz on his chin and lip. He wore jeans with a tear at the knee and a Deadmau5 concert T-shirt and nothing on his feet. “Hey, I’m Lorena, I live in South. We have some friends who’ve been telling me about you.” She walked right past him and into his apartment. Men were easy.

  Daron followed her in, flicking the door behind him to shut it. “What friends?” he said. Waldo stopped the door with his toe and stepped inside. Daron turned and said, “Hi,” confounded but unalarmed. He was too soft to be much of a dealer; if the Roses were right about him selling to his cousin, he was probably just passing on his own buy to show off.

  Waldo could see doors to at least two bedrooms. There were take-out food containers all over the living room and empty Ketel One bottles and dirty clothes. The place smelled like weed and greasy leftovers. Tonight’s dinner cartons sat half-eaten next to a bong on a filthy glass coffee table, across from a ninety-inch TV with some multiplayer shooting game in progress, animated Special Forces types hunting bad guys somewhere in the Middle East.

  Waldo said, “We’re looking for Stevie Rose.”

  The name put him on guard. “I don’t know her, man.”

  Lorena said, “How do you know Stevie’s a her?”

  Waldo said, “Play dumb about your friends, not about your cousin. That’s too dumb.”

  Daron said, “Hey, what friends told you about me?” His eyes flitted to his game. “I’m kinda playing with a team . . .”

  Lorena looked at Daron’s half-eaten dinner cartons. “Mastro’s. What you got, a K.C. strip?”

  “Rib eye.”

  “And is that the lobster mashed potatoes? Love those.” She looked at Waldo. “That’s a thirty-five-dollar side right there.”

  Daron said, “Postmates.” Now he was staring at his game full on. He reached for a controller on the coffee table, which was plugged into a laptop on a chair, corded into the TV.

  Lorena slid the controller out of his reach. Daron shot her a what gives? look.

  Waldo said, “When’s the last time you talked to Stevie?”

  “Not since Thanksgiving. For real.”

  “You know she’s missing?” Daron shook his head, looked uneasy. “Your number’s one of the last she called before she disappeared. For real.”

  “Are you police?”

  “Private eyes. Working for Stevie’s parents. We find her, all of this goes away. We don’t, the police’ll be here next, and they’ll want to talk about the goodie bag you sent her home with.”

  “I don’t know what they found, but I didn’t give her anything.”

  “The envelope was from your dad’s company.” Daron deflated. Waldo said, “Are you always this stupid, or just always baked?”

  Daron said, “I’m straight, man. I’m in the middle of a game, is all. I’m a Distinguished Master Guardian, and if I want to make Legendary Eagle, we’ve got to defuse this bomb—”

  Waldo yanked the cord from the TV, toppling the laptop too.

  Daron, infuriated, lunged at him. Lorena placed a stiletto in his path and Daron crashed to the floor. Saying, “Temper, Daron,” she kicked his kneecap for good measure.

  “Ow! You know, even if you got a problem with me? There are four other guys whose ratings you just completely fucked.”

  Lo
rena said, “Three nights ago—why did Stevie call you?”

  Daron stayed on the ground. “She said she had some big fight with her parents. She wanted me to come get her so she could come down here and chill. I wasn’t doing anything else, so . . .”

  “Do you guys hang out a lot?”

  “Not really. Just, like, when the families are together.”

  “Did she ever call you like that before? To come get her?”

  Daron shook his head and rubbed his knee. “First time.”

  Waldo said, testing, “For real.”

  Daron, still on the floor, said, “Yes!” Then: “Can I get up?”

  Waldo nodded. “So what did you guys do down here?”

  Daron climbed onto a love seat. “Ordered a pizza. Watched some Netflix. She never saw American Pie.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then she left.”

  “By herself? How’d she do that?”

  “I don’t know. She was, like, in a mood. She got all drama-rama.”

  “Over what?”

  Daron looked cornered. “She wanted some shit I didn’t have.”

  “What kind of shit?” Daron clammed up. “Talk to us or talk to the cops.”

  Lorena said, “Or my foot.”

  He rolled. “Blow. After the pizza. I’m not even into blow.” Off their skepticism, he said, “Look, I sell a little weed sometimes, just, like, to friends. I got my green card,” he said, as if that made everything legit. “But after the pizza, Stevie wanted blow. So we went to see my guy and bought a gram. She wanted to buy more than that, but I was feeling, like, responsible, you know what I mean? Because she’s my cousin.”

  Waldo said, “I’m sure your aunt and uncle appreciate it.”

  Lorena said, “So what was the fight about?”

  “She got all flirty with my guy. And he was into her. She let him put his number on her phone and all, and then he gave her another gram. Just gave it to her. She’s fifteen, man. This isn’t a guy you want to fuck around with. So when we got back here I told her that, and she didn’t like it, said I was being all parental, and she wouldn’t let it go. After she did a couple rails she just got worse about it and made, like, this big speech about how I wasn’t her dad and walked out.”

  Waldo said, “And you let her go? Down here, where she didn’t know anybody?”

  “You ever met Stevie? She does what she wants, man. She’s been like that since she was a little kid. Her parents let her do anything. Thanksgiving, all she’d eat for, like, three years was rice with ketchup on it, and her parents were cool with it. It’s fucked up.”

  “Any idea where she went?” Daron shook his head. “Think she called your dealer?”

  Daron didn’t answer, but Waldo could see the notion troubled him.

  “What’s his name?”

  Daron straightened up on the love seat and shut down again. He wasn’t going to tell them that.

  Lorena said, “It’s Amador, right?” Daron startled. “First name something with an M?”

  Daron’s eyes widened and he rolled again. “Marwin.”

  “She left here about a quarter to eleven?”

  Now he was alarmed. “I guess. How do you know?”

  “Amador’s number’s on her phone. Last call she made.”

  “Shit.”

  Waldo said, “Put on some shoes. You’re taking us to Amador.”

  Daron looked helplessly from one to the other and finally said, “Can I take my dessert with me?” Waldo nodded. “Can I put it in the microwave first? It’s butter cake—it’s way better served warm.”

  Waldo said, “Shoes.”

  Daron went into the bedroom. Lorena said to Waldo, “That butter cake’s sixteen bucks. Love Mastro’s.”

  Out on the street Daron waited in tattered high-tops while Waldo and Lorena did math problems. Given Lorena’s Mercedes, which couldn’t seat three, and Daron’s BMW, which could, was the ten-mile trip north to Santa Ana more environmentally damaging with all of them in the Beemer, requiring a double-back to Costa Mesa before Lorena and Waldo would triple-back north for the night, or could they, as Lorena preferred, take two cars to Amador’s in the first place? The respective fuel (in)efficiencies were a variable, though, and Waldo suspected that Daron’s 7 Series was actually even worse than Lorena’s SLK, so he took out his phone and typed in carbonfootprint.com to run a comparison. Daron fired up a joint. Lorena slapped it out of his hand and implored Waldo to ride with Daron while she followed. Waldo, weary of relenting, relented again.

  Getting off the 5 at Grand, Daron told Waldo that Amador wouldn’t like him bringing one stranger to his house, let alone two, so Waldo phoned Lorena in her car and they agreed she’d park down the street and wait for them to finish. The blocks grew shabbier as they pushed deeper into Amador’s neighborhood, which Daron told him was called Lacy. For all Waldo’s years in Southern California, most of Orange County remained mysterious terrain.

  As the lights grew fewer and the windows more heavily barred, he grew more self-conscious about their minicaravan, Beemer and Benz. He looked over his shoulder. As if reading his mind—nothing new—Lorena slowed and let Daron’s lead stretch to three-quarters of a block. She kept that distance when they parked.

  Amador’s bungalow looked like the others around it, peeling paint and heavy metal rods. Waldo reached for the doorbell. Daron told him it didn’t work and gave the bars on the doors a clamorous rattle instead.

  Marwin Amador threw open the inner door and scowled, scrutinizing Waldo from behind the security gate. His weight-lifter’s frame strained a dirty blue A-shirt and his head was shaved, but his most menacing feature—not apparent until he turned his head to glare at Daron—was a small constellation of teardrop outlines tattooed high on his right cheek. They might stand for a number of different things: people he killed, loved ones he mourned, deaths he planned to avenge. Waldo squinted against the light spilling from inside, trying to decipher the ink above it, an indefinite shape above the eyebrow that did nothing to diminish the ambiguity.

  Amador saw Waldo staring at it and said, “Fuck are you?”

  “Waldo. I’m a detective.”

  Amador glowered at Daron, murderous.

  “Not a cop!” said Daron quickly. “A private eye. Like Columbo.”

  Waldo said, “Columbo was a cop.”

  “He was?”

  “Yeah. Lieutenant Columbo.”

  “Fuck’s Lieutenant Columbo?” said Marwin Amador, with an accent thicker than Waldo had realized from his first monosyllables.

  Daron, nervous, added, “Old TV show. I used to watch reruns with my dad.” But it didn’t look like that helped with Amador, who leaned closer to the bars and peered down the block in both directions.

  Waldo said, “I’m looking for a girl.”

  Daron said, “The one I brought here the other night.”

  “Don’t remember no girl.”

  Waldo said, “You gave her your phone number. She called you.”

  “Didn’t talk to no girl.” He looked at Daron. “You remembering wrong, ese. Maybe you left her in the car.”

  Daron said, “Maybe I did.”

  Amador stared Waldo down. “That all you wanted?”

  Waldo held a beat, then said, “Yeah.”

  “Good,” said Amador, and started to shut the door.

  “Hey,” said Waldo. Amador turned. Waldo stepped closer to the bars himself and peered unapologetically at the tattooed blob above the tattooed droplets. Waldo tapped the corresponding spot above his own eye. “What’s that supposed to be—a sponge?”

  Amador’s nostrils flared. “’S a fucking cloud, ese. Tears like rain.”

  “You sure? Looks like a sponge.”

  “Tears like rain.” Amador’s lip twitched and he slammed the door.

  W
aldo put Daron in his car and sent him home. He walked down the block to Lorena’s car. “Shit,” he said, getting in, “I’m lost down here.”

  “Don’t look at me. Orange County’s kicking my ass this week.”

  “I don’t even know who this Amador is. Is he a player? A punk? We need a lead on our lead.”

  “O.C. Dealers for Dummies. Who could write that book?”

  Waldo had an idea and Lorena felt it.

  “What?” she said. “You know someone?”

  “You know him, too.”

  When it dawned on her whom he meant, she started to argue, but this one he wasn’t going to let her win.

  FOURTEEN

  Waldo dialed, waited and, on hearing the bodyguard’s expected grunt, said, “He there?”

  The boss’s voice, when it came, was impatient and gruff: “What you want?” Waldo wondered whether he’d made a mistake.

  Don Q was the trafficker who had pressured Waldo into forcing the headmaster to let his daughter into Stoddard. Before that, he had threatened to kill Lorena, driving her underground and prompting her to fake her own murder, for which the dealer took false credit. Along the way the guy’s hired muscle had bruised Waldo’s ribs and twice left him unconscious. In fact, every encounter Waldo had with the dealer had ended in violence.

  Then again, the last couple of times, Waldo hadn’t been the victim of that violence, which could be seen as progress, and now Don Q looked like his quickest path to information about Amador. “I got some questions about an entrepreneur in Orange County. Do you know a guy named Marwin—”

  Don Q cut him off, said, “Fuck you calling me for?” and hung up.