The Butcher's Granddaughter (15 page)

I knew a few people at the party but not as many as were yelling me greetings as I worked my way across the room. At any party on the scale that rich California kids throw them, small groups form like nervous countries, defined by the disposition of their citizens. In one corner you’re going to have the Valley Girls, sipping wine and beer and maybe doing a little coke with their boyfriends, who think proving their manhood means getting an ear pierced. A little farther away there might be an intellectual group, usually older and drunk as nine lords, talking about everything from the Seventy Biblical Fallacies to what they would do if a million dollars suddenly hit them on the head.

The group I preferred would be the hardest to find—folks who at least tried not to be pretentious, and went to parties because it was fun, not because it was the thing to do or because they might miss something really spectacular and not be able to say they were there the next day. People who didn’t arrive before ten because they were there to drink and hang out with people who did something else with their lives besides party.

I found them out on the balcony. Del was with them.

I flipped my cigarette in a tumbling, glowing arc to P.C.H. below. I pulled out another and Del was there to light it for me. “You don’t strike me as the smoker type,” I said.

“I probably don’t strike you as a lot of things that I am.”

I nodded and shrugged. Del introduced me around to some of her friends and acquaintances, and we small-talked for a bit. It quickly became obvious that Del and I were more interested in each other than anyone else. We comfortably drifted away from the larger group.

“You assume a lot, Bird.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked out over the water. Close to the horizon were small, bright lights belonging to cruise ships and oil drilling platforms. I joined her gaze. The moon was setting and it was beautiful, but I liked looking at Del’s profile instead. “I know what you think. That I’m just another shallow college Betty well on her way through the regular paths of success, so I can marry a guy who knows what season it is by the J. Crew catalog and have two kids with affordable drug habits. Jesus.”

I started applauding. “Very good, very good. And I thought
I
was cynical. By the way, I never did thank you.”

“Thank me for what?” she asked.

“For the other night in Larry Parker’s,” I said, smiling and taking another sip of tequila.

“What, for telling that kid you were waiting out front for him? How hard was that?”

“It doesn’t matter. The thing is that you did it.”

“You’re right. And you owe me a dinner, too, I believe.”

“Name the time and the place.”

I said it with too much confidence. She pursed her lips. “Anywhere? You’ll take me anywhere?”

I nodded.

“Scandia,” she said, challenging me. “On the Strip.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said, without missing a beat.

I wandered upstairs through palatial bedrooms until I found a phone away from the noise, amazed that only three people lived in the house. If they rotated nightly it would still take them two weeks to sleep in every room. I flopped down on a brass four-poster and put my feet up without worrying about the bedspread. The phone was one of those tacky brass and enamel jobs that looks like a big “J.” I picked it up and dialed Scandia, got the maitre d’ and asked for the headwaiter. Saturday at seven-thirty would be fine. Away from the kitchen? Of course.

She was still leaning over the water, still beautiful. I walked up behind her and said, “I presumed. I hope Saturday at seven-thirty is all right.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You just went up and made reservations? Just now?”

“Sure did.”

“And you got in for this Saturday night? At
Scandia
?”

I nodded. “I know some people.”

“No, no, no. You don’t squirm away that easy. Nobody just calls up and gets reservations at that place, on short notice, without some influence. And you did the same thing at Larry Parker’s. Larry’s isn’t as hard to get into, granted. But...what is it you do, Bird?”

She wasn’t going to leave it alone. “I know I can’t give you an evasive answer. You won’t buy it.”

She nodded her head. “That’s right.”

“Understand that I have a few reservations about telling you.”

“Why? What are you, a drug dealer?”

“No.”

“A hit man.”

Her tone had been halfway serious with the dealer comment. Now it wasn’t. “Be real.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Think about it. If I was, I’d have half this party against the wall. Look, the reason I really don’t want to say anything specific is because telling people generally turns them into customers or connections rather than friends.” I let her consider that for a minute.

My selfish evasion only confused her. “Hmm.” She put her chin in her hand and gazed at me, assessing.

“You won’t get anything that way,” I said. “Tell you what: you tell me something about you that would surprise me, and I’ll tell you something about me. No lies. The game wouldn’t be any fun that way.”

“A game player, huh? All right. I swore I would never see a guy that played games, but oh well. So I go first?”

“Of course. Information from me is never a bargain.”

She pursed her lips and ran her fingers through her hair for a smooth minute. I switched off between the view of her face and the view of the water. “I like to sing,” she said.

“So do I.”

“No. I mean really sing. I front for a blues band over in Westwood once in a while.”

“A blues-band!?” I couldn’t help a laugh that was almost a short yell. “You? Honey, don’t you think you’re a little, ah—”

“White?”

“I was going to say...privileged?” She mocked a pout. “I’m just teasing, though. That’s definitely worth a trade.”

I put my chin in my hand, as if it were hard to think of something she didn’t know. “OK, here’s one. The kid on the stool the other night in Larry Parker’s...?” I shrugged.

She nodded. “Yeah?”

“You remember he had a bag with him? A big duffel?”

“Sure. So what? I thought this stuff was supposed to be about you.”

“You want to know what I ‘do.’ I’m telling you.”

“All right, what about the bag?”

“It had a hundred and forty thousand bucks in it when he went running out the back door.”

Her eyebrows went up at that, but it didn’t have the devastating effect I thought it would. “It’s not an even trade,” she said. “Tell me what you did with the money and it’ll be even.”

I almost grabbed her, but put my hands in my pockets instead. She sensed my sudden tension and took half a step back. “What makes you think I took the money from him?” I said, a little too sternly.

“Relax,” she said, putting up a defensive hand.

“No. You think I roll fifteen-year-old drug couriers for money?” My voice was icy. “What’s that about?”

“Look, don’t get that way with me. It’s
your
game.” She stepped back over to me and stuck out her chin. “You won’t tell me anything, so I guessed. If that’s not what you do, then tell me.”

My anger quickly turned into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. Some stuff went down over the last couple of days that’s put me a little on edge. It’s over now, but I’m still on the crash, I guess.” I slapped my front pocket and felt an empty pack of cigarettes. Before I could ask, Del pulled hers out and shook one to me. “I have a feeling you’re going to need this,” she said.

“Not really, but thanks,” I said, smirking. “It’s just that, when you said that about the money, it was unexpected. I make a living by knowing what people are going to do and when. I’ll always react that way to the unexpected.”

She folded her arms and raised one eyebrow toward her hairline. “Make it even,” she said.

I took a deep breath. “All right. If I had to put it in a sentence, I buy and sell information. Street information. That’s what I ‘do.’ That’s what I was doing that night at Larry Parker’s. And, to answer your question, I used that money to buy the life of that kid who was carrying it.”

“So you’re an informer. A...a narc.”

“Not exactly. An informer doesn’t have a lot of control over his situation. I can pick and choose what I tell to who. I’m a businessman, trading in a valuable commodity, filling a need for profit.”

“Bullshit. You’re a narc.”

I rolled my eyes disgustedly. “Think what you want. All I came here to do was have a few drinks and maybe a good time with an attractive person who wasn’t up to her pretty neck. I’m sorry.”

She looked out over the water and I looked back into the house and nursed my tequila. I was in no mood to rationalize or vindicate myself.

“So, what kind of information do you sell?” she said, breaking the silence that was growing gradually more uncomfortable. I turned and looked at her. She was still gazing over the water, intentionally avoiding my stare. “I mean, you said ‘street information.’ What is that?”

I tipped the glass at her. “I’ll give you an example. How much information, in the few hours that we’ve seen each other, do you think you’ve given me?”

“Some, but nothing important. You know I’m a student, and that I have a small hobby of singing. You know where I live. And my phone number. So what?”

“It’s information. Someday, it might be valuable to somebody. I find that somebody, or happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s what I do.”

“You’d sell stuff about me to somebody?”

“Of course not. I kind of like you.”

She blew that one off and asked, “Who would want information like that? They can look in the phonebook.”

I shook my head. “Only if you know who you’re looking for. You think the cops just look up murder suspects in the phonebook? It’s not the information alone, but how it’s processed, what happens to it before it goes up for sale. See? You’re in my backyard, now. Here, let me give you an example of what can be done with useless information.” I finished off the tequila and readjusted myself on the railing. “Let’s say, for discussion purposes, that I’d never met you—you’d never relieved me of my virginity, didn’t even grow up in the same town.” She smiled at that one, couldn’t help it. “You get on somebody’s bad side, somebody in my circle of connections. Let’s say you start messing around in some pigpen where you don’t belong, like threatening an ex-boyfriend’s new girl.”

“You must be kidding.”

I shrugged. “So you start giving the new couple some heat. Calls in the middle of the night, maybe you even get creative and slash his tires or leave threatening messages on her answering machine, pretending to be somebody else. He, of course, knows all the information you’ve just given me. So he gets a hold of me late one night and I go to work. In twenty-four hours do you know what I’ve got from that useless information?”

She shook her head. She was enthralled.

“I go to the DMV and walk up to some flat-assed clerk and get your entire MVR. I have your license number, car make and year, plates, your birthday. I take that to a little house in Encino, where an eleven-year-old kid I know will do just about anything with a computer modem for a hundred bucks. He gets online to some websites run by ex-convicts and people with some very esoteric talents. Eventually, I find your Social Security number, and from there, all your credit card numbers and all your family’s addresses, as well as any bank accounts you and they have, right down to the PIN numbers on your bankcards. By that afternoon I have your entire life in the palm of my hand. I know where you go to classes and what time they run, I can paralyze you financially, and I can follow you anywhere. So can anybody else with that sort of dope. Information like that is worth a lot of money in the corner of a bar in the middle of the night. Can we talk about something else now?”

“No,” she said, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “This is fascinating.”

“Yeah, well, too bad. Something about you, now. That’s everything there is to know about me.” Charlie, ever on cue, stepped out with a fistful of beer bottles and passed them around to the loose crowd on the balcony. I took one. Del didn’t.

“We both know that’s a lie,” she said, not losing the smile.

She slipped through the door and I watched her blond bob bounce back toward the kitchen. While she was inside, Tom, very drunk and a little baked, made it to the railing around the balcony just in time to use it as a substitute for his legs.

“Little balance problem there, Thomas?” I asked.

He looked at me with eyes stained marijuana-red. “First,” he said, thrusting a wavering finger almost into my eye, “no problem. Second, don’t call me Thomas. Third, trade me.” The unsteady finger pointed roughly in the direction of my beer. It was about half full. His was empty. I didn’t argue.

“Thanks,” he lisped. “Could you be a good fellow and tell me where the john is in this castle?”

I shrugged. “Sorry, buddy, I haven’t been there yet.”

“I been there three times and still can’t remember,” he said, and excused himself through the door past Del. She had returned with a glass containing a lot of vodka and very little ice.

She let out a sigh and said, “The alcohol is getting to me and I get antisocial when I’m drunk. This crowd is starting to bother me. You wanna go somewhere else until it starts to thin out?”

“Like where?”

She pointed off the balcony to the strip of blue-gray sand below.

“Geez, a walk on the beach? Sure that wouldn’t be too romantic for you?” I grinned stupidly at her.

“We’re not going to do much walking,” she said flatly, brushing past me. She started down the stairs that ran steeply off the balcony and stayed next to the cliffs until they bottomed out on the shoulder of P.C.H. I followed. We ran across the four narrow lanes onto the sand, holding hands. Then we turned, and Del walked slightly in front of me along the edge of the water. She hadn’t bothered to take her shoes off. I sat down for a second to get rid of mine and roll up my jeans. “Don’t you get sand in your shoes?” I said to her back.

She took a sip of the vodka and looked over her shoulder. “I know how to walk,” she said.

Yes she did. There was just enough silver light from the moon and the highway to watch her sway along, her feet just beyond the cool reach of the ocean foam. I caught up to her and put an arm around her waist. We walked along for a while, not saying anything and being quite comfortable that way. She threw the drink over her shoulder, glass and all. It wasn’t worth a comment.