We found a pleasant-looking cafe farther up the street, ate huge, cold salads, decent swordfish, and excellent Chilean sea bass with french fries and coleslaw, and drank a bit of wine, then strong black coffee.
Walking it off, we went far enough past the commercial zone to get an ocean glimpse of our own. The water was a thousand miles of black beyond a white thread of sand. The waves rolled drunkenly, sending up ice chips of spray and an occasional roar that sounded like applause. We held hands so tightly our fingers ached, grabbed at each other, and kissed until our tongues throbbed.
Barely enough light to see Robin's dark eyes, narrowing.
She bit my lower lip and I knew some of it was passion, the rest, anger. I kissed her behind her ear and we embraced for a long time, then we returned to the truck and drove north, out of town.
"Don't get on the freeway," she said. "Drive awhile."
I got onto Laguna Canyon Road, went for several miles, and made a random turn onto an unmarked strip that corkscrewed up into the mountains.
No talk or music. Her hands on me as she cried out her tension. We passed a pottery studio, its wooden sign barely lit by a dusty bulb. A glimpse of chicken-wire fencing. A couple of horse ranches, an unmarked shack. Then nothing for a long time and the road dead-ended at brush.
Crickets and shadows, the ocean nowhere in sight.
I put the truck in reverse. Robin stopped me and turned off the engine.
We locked eyes and kissed, fumbling with each other's clothing.
Stripped completely naked, we held each other, shivering, knitting our limbs. Breathing into one another, fighting for oblivion.
• • •
The ride back was slow and silent, and I managed to keep reality at bay till we got off the freeway. Robin slept, as she had since we'd crossed the L.A. county line, low in the seat, half smiling.
It was one forty-two in the morning and Sunset was nearly bare of cars. The familiar eastward cruise was solitary and peaceful. As I approached the Beverly Glen intersection, I prepared to shoot through the green light. Then wailing sirens sounded from somewhere I couldn't pinpoint, surrounding me, growing louder.
I slowed and stopped. Robin was startled, sitting up just as flashing red lights popped out from around the bend and the sirens became unbearable. A hook-and-ladder came at us from the east, bearing down; for an instant I felt trapped. Then the fire engine made a sharp right turn, northward, onto the Glen, followed closely by another fire truck, then another smaller unit. A cherry-topped sedan brought up the rear as the sirens tapered off to a distant whistle.
Robin was clutching the armrest. Her eyes were gigantic, as if the lids had been stapled back.
We looked at each other.
I turned left and followed the shrieking caravan.
• • •
A hundred yards in I could smell it. A pot left too long on the stove, overlaid with gasoline.
I put on speed, just able to see the fire car's taillights. Hoping the company would continue on up, toward Mulholland and beyond. But they hooked west.
Up an old bridle path that led up to a solitary property.
Robin held her head and moaned as I floored the truck. Coming to my street, I sped up the slope. The road was blocked by the newly arrived fire trucks and I had to pull over and park.
Work lights were scattered about, highlighting the firefighters' yellow hats. Lots of movement, but the night blocked out the details.
Robin and I jumped out and began running up the hill. The burnt stench was stronger now, the sky a black, camouflaging host for the plumes of dark smoke that shot upward in greasy gray spirals. I could feel the fire- the caustic heat- better than I could see it. My body was drenched with sweat. I was cold to the marrow.
The firefighters were uncoiling hoses and shouting, too busy to notice us.
What had once been my pond gate was charcoal. The carport had collapsed and the entire right side of my house was smoldering. The back of the building was haloed in orange. Tongues of fire licked the sky. Sparks jumped and died, wood crackled and crashed.
A tall firefighter handed a hose to another man and pulled off his gloves. He saw us and came forward, gesturing us back.
We walked toward him.
"It's our house," I said.
The look of pity on his face cut me deeply. He was black, with a big jaw and wide, dark mustache. "Sorry, folks- we're working hard on it, got here as quick as we could from the Mulholland substation. Reinforcements just came in from Beverly Hills."
Robin said, "Is it all gone?"
He removed his hat and wiped his forehead, exhaling. "It wasn't as of a few minutes ago, ma'am, and we've controlled it- you should start to see that smoke turn white real soon."
"How bad is it?"
He hesitated. "To be frank, ma'am, you've suffered some serious structural damage all along the rear. What with the drought and all that wood siding- your roof's half gone, must have been pretty dry up there. What was it, ceramic tile?"
"Some sort of tile," I said. "It came with the house, I don't know."
"Those old roofs… give thanks it wasn't wood shingle, that would have been like a pile of kindling."
Robin was looking at him but she wasn't listening to him. He bit his lip, started to place a hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself. Putting his glove back on, he turned to me.
"If the wind doesn't do squirrely things, we should be able to save some of it. Get you in there soon as possible to start taking a look."
Robin started to cry.
The fireman said, "I'm real sorry, ma'am- if you need a blanket, we've got some in the truck."
"No," she said. "What happened?"
"Don't know exactly, yet- why don't you talk to the captain- that gentleman over there? Captain Gillespie. He should be able to help you."
After pointing to a medium-sized man up near the carport, he ran off. We made our way to the captain. His back was to us and I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, looking ready to snap. One look at us shut his mouth. He was in his fifties and had a deeply scored face that was almost a perfect square.
Tugging at his chin strap: "Owners?"
Two nods.
"Sorry, folks- out for the night?"
More nods. I felt encased in sand. Movement was an ordeal.
"Well, we've been at it for about half an hour, and I think we got to it relatively fast after ignition. Luckily, someone driving up the Glen smelled it and phoned it in on cellular. We've got most of the really hot spots out. Look for white smoke soon, Mr.-?"
"Alex Delaware. This is Robin Castagna."
"Ron Gillespie, Mr. Delaware. Are you the legal owners or tenants?"
"Owners."
Another pitying look. A whooshing sound came from the house. He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back.
"We should be able to save at least half of it, but our water does some damage, too." He looked back again. Something creased his brow. "One minute." Jogging over to a group of new arrivals, he pointed at my flaming roof and spread his arms like a preacher.
When he came back, he said, "You folks want something to drink? C'mon, let's get away from the heat."
We followed him down the road a bit. The house was still in sight. Some of the smoke had startened to lighten, pluming upward like an earthborn cloud.
He pulled a canteen out of his jacket and held it out to us.
Robin shook her head.
I said, "No, thanks."
Gillespie opened the bottle and drank. Screwing the cap back on, he said, "Do you know of anyone who'd want to do this to you?"
"Why?"
He stared at me. "Usually, people say no."
"There is someone," I said. "I don't know who- it's a long story- there's a police detective you can talk to."
I gave him Milo's name and he wrote it down.
"I'd better call him now," he said. "Our arson investigators will be in on it too. This is an obvious intentional, we've got three discrete points of origin and we found a gasoline can out back that's probably the accelerant- looks like the bastard didn't even try to hide it."