Self-Defense (20 page)

“Junkie,” he repeated. “Could be. Hungry
hypes don’t wait for a corner suite and fresh linens.”

“It would explain his cutting out on Lucy
in her time of need. Talking to everyone else
but
her because she’d know
he was traveling to make a buy, and he didn’t want to have to explain. Doesn’t
lots of stuff come into New Mexico from the border?”

He nodded. “But no shortage of stuff right
here in L.A.”

“Maybe he couldn’t buy here. Because he’d
run up some serious debts
—that
could be why he left town. Avoiding
creditors. The kind who don’t send overdue notices.” My stomach tightened. “For
all we know, the creditors know about Lucy and are trying to use her as
leverage. Maybe those phone hang-ups
were
real. Maybe someone really did break in
and mess with her underwear.”

“No one broke in,” he said. “She said
there was no evidence of that.”

“Okay, so they tossed Puck’s place and
found the key to Lucy’s apartment.”

“That’s awfully subtle for people like
that,” he said. “They’d enjoy breaking in.”

“Maybe it’s at a subtle stage.
Intimidating him so he makes a big score for them and settles up. Maybe he’s a
longtime seller. How else would he pay for his habit without a job? Lucy’s got
a family trust fund that pays her a thousand dollars a month, so he might too.
But with any kind of habit, a thousand a month wouldn’t go very far.”

“Trust fund from Lowell’s side of the
family or the mother’s?”

“Lowell’s.”

“Daddy abandons the kids, but supports
them?”

“It’s a generation-skipping thing set up
by
his
mother for taxes. He may have no control over it.”

“Leverage,” he said. “Yeah, be nice to
blame it all on the dope demons and restore her credibility. But I still don’t
see any connection to her head in the oven.”

“What if someone drugged her and put her
there? She’s a creature of routine, has a drink of juice, every night, watches
PBS. That would explain the drapes being open—they wanted her to be found.
Wanted to send a message to Puck. Wouldn’t
that
be something? We’re all
assuming she’s lying or denying, and she’s telling the truth?”

He rubbed his face. “It would
absolutely
be something, Alex. It would be Fantasyland, ’cause there’s no
knot on her head and the hospital found nothing on her dope panel.”

“What if they gave her something the panel
doesn’t test for, like chloroform?”

“Hey,” he said, “you wanna theorize, I say
it’s more likely Pucky himself tried to gas her—pissed ’cause she wouldn’t give
him dope money. Or maybe he’s just after her chunk of the trust fund and split
town to give himself an alibi. And he’s calling Ken to find out if she’s dead.
You like that one, I can make up six more like it for a quarter. Couple more
quarters, I’ll fill your
day
with fantasy.”

Off in the distance, the retriever sniffed
the air and bolted off after something. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m lapsing
into wishful thinking because I’d just love it if she didn’t try to destroy
herself. But she did. And for all I know, Puck never touched dope. Just a shy
guy with circulatory problems.”

“No,” he said, “there’s something off
about him. I wanted to check him out on the computer this morning, but I got
called to the market two-eleven at six-thirty. First thing I do when I get back
is play computer games. Got an address for him?”

“Ken said Studio City. Are you still going
to check out Trafficant?”

“Sure, why not? I’m already pushing
buttons.”

“Poor Lucy,” I said. “Another hurt.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Hurt seems to be on her
dance card.”

It was 1P.M. when I got back to Malibu.
While stopped at a red light near the pier, I caught a look at Shooting the
Curl’s facade. White building, blued windows. A sign with fat white letters
spelling out the name over a mural of a wet-suited surfer riding a big wave.

Paradise Cove was ten miles later. A neon
sign on a tall pole pointed toward the beach. THE SAND DOLLAR
Breakfast
Lunch Dinner.
Impulsively, I turned off.

A dipping road took me past an acre or so
of wildflowers, then a trailer park shaded by huge shaggy eucalyptus. Between
the trees, the water was flat and silver. Another hundred feet and I came up
against a guardhouse and a lowered wooden arm. A sign said the beach was
private and it would cost $5 to go any farther unless I was eating at the
restaurant.

The kid in the guardhouse stuck his head
out. His nose was peeling and his sunglasses were mirrored.

“Sand Dollar,” I said.

“Five bucks.” He handed me a ticket. “Get
this stamped and I’ll give it back to you when you leave.”

I drove down the final slope to a big wide
parking lot. The restaurant was down at the bottom, set on the sand, a
wood-shingled shuttered thing with a Happy Hour banner above the door.

Inside was a dark waiting area carpeted in
red felt, paneled in cheap wood, and hung with salt-eaten nautical gear. No one
was waiting, but a cigarette was smoldering in an ashtray. To the right was a
cavelike bar with a couple of people bellying up and watching stand-up comedy
on cable. Straight ahead was an empty host’s stand and, beyond that, the
restaurant.

The main room was gigantic, the way L.A.
restaurants used to be before the land boom, with two long rows of red
brass-buttoned booths and the same felt carpeting. The entire beach wall was
glass. A big storm, several years ago, had sheared off one-third of the pier.
The remains jutted over the water. A few tourists sat on the beach. The people
in the restaurant looked mostly like locals, but there weren’t many of them and
they were distributed thinly.

A couple of waitresses were working, one
young and redheaded, the other in her fifties with a squat face and cropped
gray hair. Both wore pink blouses, black pants, and red aprons, their sleeves
rolled up, their eyes tired. A busboy collected dishes from a table in the far
corner.

The host was a tall, heavy, white-bearded
man. He noticed me and stopped talking to a busboy.

“Lunch for one,” I said, and he took me to
a window booth.

The older waitress showed up a few minutes
later, all business. I ordered the Angler’s Breakfast, $10.95 (Served All Day):
deep-fried red snapper, eggs, hash browns, juice, and coffee. The food was good
and I tried to eat slowly. By the time I finished, the restaurant was nearly
empty and the waitress was nowhere in sight. I finally spotted her in the bar,
smoking and watching TV, and gave a wave.

She came over, looking peeved. Her name
tag said DORIS.

I handed her a twenty and the parking stub
and she went to get change. Pulling out Best’s data sheet, I scanned the names
of the restaurant staffers.

Doris Reingold?

When she returned, I said, “Keep five for
yourself,” and got a big smile.

“Thank you, sir, how was your meal?”

“Excellent.”

“The Angler’s one of our popular ones.”

“I can see why... looks like things are
pretty quiet today.”

“It goes up and down. On Sunday no one
gets in without a reservation.”

“That so?”

“All the Hollywood people show up—they’re
over at their beach places for the weekend. Barbra Streisand sits in that
corner. She’s tiny. We get chefs, too, like the guy who runs La Poubelle. They
bring their kids. I keep telling Marvin to raise prices, but he won’t.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “Old habits. We’ll probably
be closed down by next year anyway. Marvin’s not healthy, and they keep after
him for the land. It’s worth a fortune.”

“Too bad. I’ll have to come here more
often while you’re still open.”

“You do that. I could use customers like
you.” She laughed. “Live around here?”

“Just moved in,” I said. “Near the county
line.”

“On the beach?”

I nodded.

“Ooh, that’s pretty. I pass by there on
the way home to Ventura. Own or rent?”

“Rent.”

“Me too. Only the millionaires own,
right?”

“Better believe it. Been working here for
a while?”

She pulled on a jowl and grinned. “It
shows, huh? But I won’t tell you exactly how long, so don’t even ask.”

I smiled back. “So what’ll you do if it
closes down?”

“I don’t know, maybe catering. All those chefs,
there’s always something comes up. Not that I look forward to that.”

“You don’t like catering?”

“Big hassle. Used to do it years ago.
Friend of mine—she worked here too—used to get catering jobs for herself and
anyone else who wanted them. Good money, but a big hassle.” She winked. “Marvin
never liked our moonlighting. We did it behind his back.”

“I’m thinking of throwing a housewarming
party, could use a good caterer. Who’s your friend?”

She shook her head. “She doesn’t do it
anymore. Got rich—owns her own business.”

“Lucky her.”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of business gets you rich
nowadays?”

She smiled at me. “You’re living on the
beach, what do you do?”

“Psychologist.”

“Oh.” She winked again. “So maybe I
shouldn’t be talking to you.”

“Don’t worry, off duty,” I said.

“You know,” she said, “I wouldn’ta tagged
you for that. I figured you for a lawyer or the music business or something.”
Fingering her apron pocket, where the tip had gone.

“I used to play in a band,” I said.
“Cocktail lounges. I know what it’s like to depend on people’s generosity.”

“Ain’t that the truth. And most of the
time, people aren’t. That’s what I hated about catering parties. You see people
at their worst; to them you’re a stick of furniture. And no tips. One
collective service charge. If the boss isn’t honest, you’re sunk.”

“Was your friend honest?”

“Which—oh, her. Yeah, honest enough.”

“You must have seen some interesting
parties, though. Working around here.”

She reached for a cigarette. “Mind?”

I shook my head. She lit up.

“Maybe to some it was interesting. All it
was to me was serving and clearing and people sticking their hands in my face.”
She shook her head and looked back. “Want more coffee? Maybe I’ll have some
myself. Marvin’s in the john, as usual.”

“Love the company,” I said.

She got the pot and another cup. Sitting
down opposite me, cigarette fuming, she poured for both of us.

“It’s been real nice working here,” she
said. “So close to the ocean.”

“How’re things in Ventura?”

“Dying. Who knows, maybe I’ll move. Got
two grown boys, both in the army. One’s in Germany, the other’s near Seattle.
Or Nevada. I like Nevada; things are booming there.”

“Your rich friend can’t help you find
anything?”

“Nah, like I said, she’s out of it. She
and her husband own a surf shop—nothing for me to do there.”

“Shooting the Curl?”

“Yeah, you know it?”

“I’ve passed by. Doesn’t look like a big
business.”

“Believe me, it is. They’ve got a place
right on the sand at La Costa—own, not rent—and that ain’t Spam salad.”

She took a deep drag as her eyes swung
toward the window. “Here we go again.”

I followed her eyes to the beach. A camera
crew was setting up, sound trucks and vans were parked in the background, and a
couple dozen people were standing around.

“Commercials,” she said. “They come here
all the time: suntan lotion, cars, Coca-Cola, you name it. Pay Marvin so much
he doesn’t have to raise his prices—speaking of the devil.”

She looked out toward the front of the
restaurant. The white-bearded man was coming toward us, head down, scowling,
arms swinging.

She stood and held out a hand to him,
smiling and muttering, “Hold your horses, Marvin.” He stared at her, then at
me, finally turned around and returned to his booth.

“Back to base,” she said, stubbing out her
cigarette. “Nice talking to you.”

“Nice talking to you too.”

“Doris,” she said, touching her badge.
“Ask for me the next time you come in. I’ll get you a beach seat....”

Catering jobs, contracted by Gwen Shea.

For anyone who wanted them.

All those chefs... contacts.

Had Karen Best gotten a job at the Sanctum
party?

Gone up early to set up and never come
back?

I sat in the car and had another look at
Best’s data sheet.

Felix Barnard, the private eye, hadn’t
noted anything about moonlighting.

The others not telling him in order to
hide it from Marvin?