The 37th Amendment: A Novel (3 page)

“He’s not here.”

“Who’s not here?”

“Rob. The guy that sits there.” Ted pointed to the empty seat in front of him.

“The guy you made the bet with?”

Ted nodded. “Five hundred bucks,” he said.

Julia smiled and stood close to Ted, stroking the zipper of his leather jacket possessively. “Oh, well,” she said. “I’d rather be alone with you anyway.”

“He’d better show up,” Ted said, ignoring her. He was humorless about basketball.

Julia sat down. “I’m sure he’s just late,” she said. “I’m sure he’s not missing a playoff game just to stiff you. You’ll get your money.”

“It’s not the money,” Ted said. “He started in on me right at the beginning of the season. ‘The Lakers have no team.’ ‘The Lakers have no defense.’ ‘The Lakers won’t make it out of the first round of the playoffs.’ So just to shut him up, I offered to put five hundred dollars on the Lakers making it into the second round. I mean, there was no doubt. Not only did we beat Barstow in five, we’ve got home court advantage against Denver. And he doesn’t have the guts to face me, that’s what it is.”

Julia nodded absently. “I’m going to buy you a beer for your birthday,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She stood up and walked past him to the aisle.

Ted reflected on the bad luck that had game one of the second round of the NBA playoffs landing on the same day as his birthday, an event for which Julia had ordered an elaborate catered dinner for two and decorated the living room of her three-bedroom house southeast of Hollywood. He had no choice but to take her to the game, even though she hated any sport that wasn’t ice skating or gymnastics. Then Julia had refused to be rushed through dinner, so the dinner was in her refrigerator, waiting to be heated up after the game, and Ted was hungry, and cranky, and fifty, and out five hundred dollars from the deadbeat no-show who still wasn’t in his seat.

Ted Braden looked younger than fifty, perhaps because most people in Los Angeles who were fifty were actually sixty-two. Six-foot-four-inches tall and lean, he looked like a serious weekend athlete, with muscular legs, broad shoulders and a deep tan. His dark brown hair was carefully tousled in front to conceal the early evidence of a receding hairline.

The first quarter was well underway by the time Julia returned with two cold beers and a bucket of popcorn. “You wouldn’t believe the line,” she said. There was a loud roar and Julia flinched as people jumped to their feet all around them. “What happened?” she asked.

“Turnover
!
” Ted shouted, punching a fist at the air. Julia sighed and looked up at the scoreboard. A little over six minutes to play in the first quarter. She sat down on the yellow plastic folding seat and crossed her legs. The two seats in front of them were still empty. “Maybe you were right about him,” Julia said, pointing to the seat in front of her, “Still not here.”

“I’m going to call him when I get home tonight,” Ted said. “I don’t remember his last name, but he gave me his card once. I’m going to find it.”

“Tonight?” Julia asked.

The crowd roared, and Ted turned back to the game.

Hours later when the final buzzer sounded, Julia was instantly on her feet. “I’m starving,” she said. “Let’s go.”

“Me, too,” Ted lied. With the Lakers comfortably ahead late in the third quarter, he had ducked out on the pretext of going to the men’s room and paid the guy who was first in line at the concessions window fifty bucks to buy him two hot dogs.

It was a seven-block walk to the only garage where Ted would consider parking the Corvette. Julia snuggled against him as they walked, wrapping her arm around his waist. “Are you cold?” Ted asked. “Do you want my jacket?”

“No,” Julia cooed. “I want to get married.”

And Ted had thought the Kite Festival was bad news.

“Married?” Ted said before he could stop himself. “Nobody gets married.”

“I’m old-fashioned,” Julia said. “I want kids, and I want to be married. Let’s get married.”

Ted heard himself exhale in a sigh that could have rocked a building.

“What does that mean?” Julia asked sharply.

“What does what mean?”

“That big sigh.”

“Oh.” Ted considered his words carefully. “Come on, Julia, you know what it’s like in California. Once you get married it’s almost impossible to....” He hesitated. “If it doesn’t work out, we would both have a huge financial headache. You know how the covenant law works. We’d have to spend two years in court-ordered counseling and then there’s that whole thing with the state trust fund if we have kids. Why go down that path? Let’s just keep things the way they are.”

“Ted, I’m thirty-two. We’ve been going together for five years. If you don’t love me enough to marry me, maybe I need to move on.”

“Julia, be reasonable.” Ted stopped and stepped aside to let two police officers walk past them on the sidewalk. “Let’s talk about this. Maybe you’re just hungry.”

Julia glared daggers at him. They reached the parking garage and Ted held the glass door as Julia stormed through it ahead of him.

It was a cool drive in the convertible on the way back to Julia’s house.

“So how’s work?” Ted tried.

“Busy,” Julia said. “We’re installing a new software back-up system for Brownell & Edwards.”

“You’ve got some big clients.”

“Yes, we do.”

Ted nodded.

“How’s Flynn?” Julia asked.

“She’s great. She was spending the day shopping with her mom, but she’ll be home tonight.”

“Good,” Julia said. “Tell her good-bye for me.”

“Julia, be reasonable,” Ted pleaded. “Nobody gets married.”

“You don’t even want to live together. You won’t even give me a key to your house.”

“It’s hardly ever locked,” Ted said.

“That’s not the point,” Julia fired back. “I love you and I want to be married to you. And you don’t feel that way about me. Do you?”

Ted was silent.

“Five years,” Julia said, her voice breaking.

“Julia, you know I care about you.”

“I love you, Ted.”

Ted was silent. Julia turned away and fixed an angry glare on the passing buildings. Crowds of people were out walking along Western Avenue. The movie theaters and restaurants were still open, though most of the shops had closed at ten. Police officers ambled idly on the sidewalk.

Ted made a right turn on Beverly Boulevard and a left turn on Hobart Place. He parked in front of the driveway of Julia’s house and turned off the engine.

“I guess you don’t want to come in,” Julia said.

Ted was silent. Julia turned sharply and looked at him. “You bastard,” she said. Her hand gripped the door handle and nearly pulled it loose as she tore open the car door.

“Julia, wait,” Ted called out. The car door slammed with enough force to rattle the windshield. Julia’s high-heeled sandals clacked fiercely on the driveway, followed by the sound of her front door slamming.

“Beautiful car.”

Ted turned around. A police officer was standing next to his door. He was writing something on a pad.

“If you ever think about selling it, give me a call,” the officer said. He ripped the sheet off his pad and handed it to Ted. It was his name and phone number.

Ted drove west on Sunset, up Cahuenga, west on Franklin and then north into the winding tangle of side streets that comprised the historic and tax-advantaged neighborhood of Whitley Heights. Built in the mid-1920s in the style of an Italian hilltop village, the development had once been home to silent movie-era luminaries Rudolph Valentino and Gloria Swanson. Judy Garland had lived there, and Janet Gaynor and Wallace Beery. Today, the elegant Mediterranean hillside homes, all white stucco and graceful archways under Spanish tile roofs, were owned mostly by overpaid film buffs seeking a deduction with a view. The costs of maintaining a 130-year-old house had made the deduction more substantial than Ted had intended, but the view, especially after a rainy day when the air was crystal clear, was worth it all, even the plumbing repairs. Ted put the Corvette into the garage, opened the door and walked inside.

The street-level entrance was on the fourth floor of the house. One flight up was the small bedroom Ted had turned into an office. His bedroom and Flynn’s room were on the fourth level, the kitchen and dining room one floor down. Below that was the living room with its spectacular views, and on the lower level, the best room in the house: an honest-to-God ballroom. Ted had left the hardwood floor in its original scuffed condition, his tribute to the 1920s Hollywood parties that had once danced across it. There was a massive carved mahogany bar along the side wall, a nice touch for a house built during Prohibition, and wide glass doors that opened out to the terraced back yard, where Ted had sunk thousands of dollars into a so-far-unsuccessful effort to restore the spooky and overgrown network of white stone fountains and shallow ponds.

Ted trotted up the stairs to his office, grabbed a faded shoebox and headed down the stairs again to the kitchen. His twelve-year-old daughter was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine article about eyebrows. “Hi, Dad,” she said without looking up. “How was the game?”

“Great,” Ted answered. He was in a wonderful mood. The fight with Julia had left him feeling surprisingly at ease, even relieved. “How was shopping with your mom?” he asked.

“Fine. She says to tell you happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Ted sat down at the kitchen table and emptied the contents of the shoebox in front of him. Flynn looked up from her magazine. “Tax time again?” she asked.

“No, sweetheart, these are business cards. I’m looking for a guy’s number.”

“Oh,” Flynn said. “Want some help?”

“Sure.” Ted gathered up a pile of cards and handed them to Flynn. “Pull out any cards for a guy named Rob.”

“What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know his last name. Just Rob.”

Flynn sighed an “Oh, Dad,” sigh and shuffled the business cards together into a tight stack. They made a thwap sound on the table as she dealt them neatly out in front of her. “Here’s one,” she said, “Robert Frazier, Coastline Realty.” She held the card out to Ted.

“I don’t think that’s him,” Ted said, looking past the card to Flynn’s hand. “You had your nails done.”

“Uh huh,” she answered. “Mom took me.”

Flynn’s nails were a hideous tattoo green with red threadlike designs running over them like arteries. The nail on the ring finger of her right hand was painted glossy black with a silver lightning bolt and the initials TCB. “What’s that?” Ted asked.

“TCB,” Flynn said, as if he clearly ought to know. “Taking Care of Business. Elvis’ symbol.”

“Oh,” Ted said. “It’s not a drug thing or anything, is it?”

Flynn gave him a patronizing smile. “No, Dad.”

Ted sighed and returned to the pile of business cards in front of him. He glanced at them two at a time and pushed them off to the right with his fingertips. After a while, they began to drop off the edge of the table.

Flynn watched them flutter to the floor. “Good-bye,” she said to the cards. “We’ll call you.”

Ted laughed and leaned back. “Well?” he said. “Any luck?”

Flynn pushed a stack of four cards across the table to him. “These are all the Roberts so far,” she said.

Ted picked up the cards. “Ince Travel Agency, Robert L. Ince. That’s not him.” He flipped the card onto the pile on the floor and held up the next card. “Nope, he’s not a car salesman. I don’t remember what he does, but he’s not a car salesman.” The next card was the inexpensive kind on standard white stock with black lettering. “Wait a minute,” Ted said. “Robert Rand. I think this is the guy.”

Flynn leaned over to read the card. “He’s a magician?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Ted said. “I remember now. He’s an actor. He does magic at kids’ birthday parties on the side. Or he does magic at birthday parties and he’s an actor on the side. Where’s the phone?”

Flynn walked over to the little desk against the kitchen wall and rummaged through a stack of envelopes and catalogs until she found the telephone. She handed it to Ted.

Ted was holding the white card at arm’s length. “I left my glasses upstairs,” he said. “Can you read that number?” Flynn took the card and the phone and started to key the number for him, then stopped. “It’s almost eleven,” she said. “It might be too late to call.”

“I don’t care if I wake him up,” Ted said. “The guy owes me five hundred bucks.” Flynn keyed the last two digits of the number and handed him the phone.

A woman answered on the first ring. “Gary, thank God you had your pager on,” she said in a shaky voice.

“Ma’am?” Ted said awkwardly, “Uh, is Rob home?”

“Who is this?” the woman demanded.

Flynn was right. He had picked a bad time to call. “Um, this is Ted Braden, I’m a friend of Rob’s. Is he home?”

“No, he’s not home,” the woman said, breaking into a sob. “He’s been arrested.”

C
HAPTER
2

“A
rrested?” Ted’s eyes widened as if they could get a clearer picture that way. “For what? What happened?”