Karl Vonn didn’t know. Neither did Janelle’s degenerate brothers.
Andy clicked back to another conversation. Five months ago, May. Ran into Janelle coming out of the White House bar with three locals he recognized. One was a big blond hippie guy who owned a local leather store. Cory somebody. One a hotshot movie director just back from making a surfing film in South Africa. And Jesse Black, the musician, scruffy and lost-looking as always.
Janelle had looked vibrant and self-conscious. Unforgettably lovely. A nominee on Oscar night. None of that hippie stuff. A tailored black leather jacket with silver on it and red accents. Black satin pants, leather boots. Dark waves of hair faceted by streetlight. Red lips and dimples. Skin pale in the fog.
The three men acted bored while Janelle stepped away to talk to Andy.
Got my own pad here in town. I love Laguna. Everybody’s so friendly.
You look good, Janelle.
I’m so sorry what happened to Clay. Call me sometime. Here. I’ll write the number.
Now Andy wondered if Janelle could have afforded a place of her own in Laguna on a snitch’s salary. He made a note to ask Nick again if Janelle had had a job.
“What are you thinking about?” Verna asked.
He shrugged.
“Never mind,” she said.
What he was thinking about was the White House matchbook Janelle had written her phone number and address on. Tossed it in his change drawer. Never called because that night outside the White House his heart had fallen to the sidewalk and bounced to Mars and back. Even though he was twenty-six and she was just a year out of high school. Even though he was with Teresa and intended to honor that. Even though he understood that Janelle Vonn was more valuable untouched by him.
So he’d kept the matchbook. Looked at it a few times. Saw her cottage from the beach a couple of times. But never called.
“I’ll tell you what I was thinking about,” said Verna. “I was wondering why the cops were paying a fifteen-year-old girl to risk her life.”
“Me, too.”
THE BAND started off with “Satisfaction,” ran off some Byrds and Dylan. Andy and Verna took a booth for themselves because there was hardly any crowd.
Teresa blew in around ten, glasses slightly askew and hair messed up by the breeze. Against the fashion of the moment, Teresa had recently cut her pretty auburn hair short. The night she did it she’d told Andy she wanted it businesslike but had left plenty of craven sex in it for him. Proven it, too.
One of her other reporters was with her, the guy who covered Newport Beach. Chas Birdwell. Andy disliked Chas’s smug face and the degree he’d earned at Stanford as a classmate of Teresa’s. She’d fired her former Newport Beach reporter, brought Chas down from San Francisco, and put him to work. Told jokes only they got. Knew all the same people. Stupid football games. Reunion every year, some rich kid’s summer mansion up in Tahoe. All that shit you didn’t get at Fullerton State, especially when you dropped out after two years.
As Teresa came across the empty dance floor toward him Andy had to smile. Something about her. Tall and slender. Cagey eyes in a pretty face, a wild laugh. Great brain. When she sat down and kissed his cheek he could smell the pot in her hair. And see the big black pupils in her gray eyes.
Chas offered Verna a dismissive little peace sign, Andy a nod, as he slid into the booth behind Teresa and sat down.
Five minutes later Jesse Black ambled in. Black had a guitar case in his hand, a worn peacoat. Then behind him, the leather store hippie in some cool black leather jacket like you’d figure. Cory. Black stayed by the stage. Cory headed straight for the bar. Cory must be six-five, thought Andy. Black stood with a forlorn expression, looking at the band.
“Uh-oh,” said Chas. “Guitar boy thinks it’s open mike night.”
“His name is Jesse Black and he’s a better songwriter than you are a reporter,” said Andy.
“Whoa,” said Chas. “I’ve been put in my place.”
“Cool it, Andy,” said Teresa.
Verna leaned toward them. “He was-”
Andy found her knee under the table and squeezed it firmly.
“He was up in L.A.,” said Andy. “Making a demo tape the last few months. Working the clubs.”
“Right,” said Verna, placing her hand over Andy’s, still on her knee. “That’s about all I know about him.”
Chas nodded without interest. Shook the wave of thick blond hair off his forehead. Had one of those stiff imperialist mustaches. Like you should salute it.
Teresa looked at Andy oddly but he saw her curiosity melt into the high she was on. That’s why she smoked it, he thought. For the way it dulled one part of her mind and sharpened another. Close one window. Open another. They said the LSD was best of all. Sandoz. Blotter. Windowpane. Orange Sunshine. Purple Haze. Wasn’t sure if he had the balls to try it. Stories about people going permanently insane. Oops, wrong window. Didn’t seem to have hurt Tim Leary any.
“So, what have you two been up to tonight?” Andy asked.
Teresa recounted her night so far with Chas: a Newport edition editorial/advertising meeting at six, quick bite at the Crab Cooker at seven, fund-raiser for the Charity League at the Newport Pavilion, you know how those things drag on forever.
Chas chuckled. Verna nodded. Andy watched Jesse Black as he propped his guitar case against the carpeted wall beside the stage and pulled out a Martin with a pickup built over the sound hole.
The band finished “Taxman” and the lead singer welcomed Jesse Black onstage.
Everyone clapped. Maybe eight people. The hippie girls with the clove cigarettes extra hard. They were checking out Cory at the bar.
Chas clapped stupidly loud, the wave of hair over his forehead jiggling.
Black slung on his guitar. Plugged in and strummed a chord. Made his way to the lead singer’s mike, pulling his cord through the stands and monitors.
Little guy, young. Thin and pale. Dark stubble, dead eyes.
“Some songs for a girl I knew,” he said. Turned his back on the tiny audience and conferred with the lead guitarist.
“His high school sweetheart?” Chas whispered to Teresa. “Died of a banana peel overdose?”
“That’s dumb,” said Teresa.
“What do you expect from a spoiled moron?” asked Andy.
“Let’s go outside,” said Chas.
“Piss on you.”
Teresa grabbed his ear and turned his face to hers. “What’s wrong with you?”
Andy jerked his head free. “I’m sorry. No sleep. The Vonn thing has me wired and weird.”
“Go home and sleep. I’ll be there later.”
“I’m writing tonight. First I want to hear some music.”
“Leave Chas alone. You don’t get to abuse the personnel just because the boss is in love with you.”
“Good. Yeah. That’s fair.”
For the next hour Jesse Black sang twelve of the prettiest songs Andy had ever heard. Sweet and smart. Passionate and humorful. Sexy, sad, beautiful. He was a good guitar player and his chords changed unexpectedly. His music sounded new and different in a way Andy couldn’t put a finger on. The band knew most of the songs, you could tell. Filling in at the right time, backing off for the rest. Nice voice, too. Clear, a little high, something innocent and yearning in it.
The last one Jesse Black did alone. A song he’d finished about two hours ago, he said. “Imagine You.” The band kept their places. Hung their heads and listened. Twenty-one-gun salute, thought Andy, rock and roll style. The drummer banged a stick on his high hat when he wiped his eyes, looked embarrassed.
A LITTLE while later Andy said goodbye to Teresa and walked Verna to her car. Kept walking up Coast Highway after she drove off. At St. Ann ’s he went down the concrete stair steps to the sand. From the beach he could see Janelle Vonn’s little cottage up on the rise. And the black ocean with a wobble of moonlight on it.