Again, he did the math. Tax and commissions. The expenditures: first-class airline tickets, hotels, lunches to impress friends, tips out the wazoo, little things that catch the eye in boutique windows, taxis (just put your hand in the air!), the bottles of French wine he now took to dinner parties, the Mercedes, the fresh-water aquarium, the linen suits and silk shirts and socks that cost twelve dollars a pair, the beautiful bags of Humboldt green, and, of course, the incidentals: “Champagne, waiter!” Or, “Let’s go to Vegas!”
Ehrich Weiss poked his head onto the balcony. “How are you?” he asked.
“Bad.”
“Life goes on. It’s not the end of the world.”
Ian stared into space.
The doctor waited a moment. “Somebody wants to see you,” he said, and disappeared.
Grace, Ian thought. It would have to be. She had always been attracted to his heartache, and Ian suspected she would be there in his darkest hour. She was dependable, if a bit tight around the lips. She meant well, and he guessed he loved her. Would always love her. Grace.
A moment later, Jon Kravitz came onto the balcony.
“Hey, man,” he said. Ian couldn’t look at him, and it took a moment to realize what was going on. Jon continued: “Just wanted to say it’s not a personal thing. It’s business. And I hope it doesn’t put a permanent damper on our friendship.”
“What?”
“It’ll probably be a while before we have the kind of trust we once did. Just wanted to say if there’s anything I can do …” He nodded, and went inside.
Ian put his head in his hands. Then he got up, opened the door to the suite, and went to inspect the minibar.
BUYER’S MARKET
AT 4:15 ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, THE HORSE AND BUGGY, a workingman’s bar on Roscoe Boulevard in Northridge, was empty except for an elderly man drinking alone, a couple of kids from CSUN, and Henry Grant. He sat in the shadows, sipping a beer and talking to Eddie, the bartender, with whom he had a long, though glancing, acquaintance.
“Mike Blowers?” Henry was saying. “I wouldn’t trade my mother-in-law for Mike Blowers.”
“Your mother-in-law’s dead, Henry.”
“Thank Christ. She still plays a better third base.”
Eddie looked down and took a swipe at the bar’s burnished surface with a wet rag. “Come on, Henry. Two weeks, there ain’t gonna be any Dodgers. No Dodger Stadium.”
“That earthquake’s never gonna happen.”
“No?” Eddie gestured at the empty room. “Then where is everybody? Take a look outside. You ever see so many moving vans in your life?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Henry waved him off. “All my neighbors are moving away …”
“That doesn’t worry you?”
Henry took a long pull off his beer. “Where the hell am I gonna go?”
Emma was sitting in the living room, watching Ricki Lake interview earthquake survivors about stress, when the doorbell rang. On her way to answer it, she glanced toward the backyard, where Dorothy was running in and out of her playhouse.
A short, stocky man in a business suit stood on the front steps. He clutched a peeling leather briefcase.
“Mrs. Grant?” he asked, and offered her a card. “Frank Baum, American Realty Company. Like to talk to you about your home.”
“My husband isn’t here.” Emma regretted the words as soon as she’d said them. How stupid she must sound, like a child, unable to make a decision on her own. “I guess it’d be OK for a minute,” she amended.
Inside, they sat around the kitchen table.
“You’ve owned this place how long?” he asked.
“About thirty years. It was my parents’ house.”
“Like to sell it?”
Emma didn’t know how to answer. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the backyard — of Dorothy tearing up her playhouse with glee. She envied her daughter’s innocence, until she remembered the last quake, when the ceiling had collapsed and the little girl’s arm had snapped like a twig. Sell the fucking house, she thought.
“I might,” Emma said.
“Like to sell it today?”
“Today?”
“Your neighbors are gone.”
“Not this minute. I don’t think I can.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong. I just heard you say you wanted to sell it.”
“Well, I…”
“Why not now?”
Emma stood up and began rummaging for a coffee filter. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Thanks,” Baum said.
She turned on the tap and began measuring out the water, a gesture so ingrained it took no thought. Thirty years in this kitchen. Thirty years. As she poured in the grounds, she couldn’t help considering another little girl, who bore her own name and face. She thought of her mother telling her a bedtime story in the room where her daughter now slept; and her father, in dirty work clothes, sipping beer and watching the Dodgers on television. The memories were like little films to her. And if she left this house, they would stay behind.
“I don’t know what I want to do,” she said.
Baum smiled. “Where did your next door neighbors go?”
“Tucson.”
“I have a nephew in Tucson. In construction.”
“My husband’s in construction.”
“Yeah?” Baum took a sip of his coffee. “My nephew’s doing very well. Your husband should give him a call.”
“I should talk it over with him first.”
“Why? You own this house, don’t you, Mrs. Grant?”
“How do you know that?”
Baum gave her a teasing smile and went to his briefcase. Two chrome latches slapped against the leather. He withdrew a piece of paper and placed it on the table in front of her.
“OK, Mrs. Grant,” he said. “This is a bill of sale. One house at 1939 Topeka Drive, in exchange for a cashier’s check in the sum of twenty thousand dollars.”
“I …”
“You want to sell this house, Mrs. Grant. Your neighbors have all moved away.” He leaned in close across the table. “And your child was hurt in the last earthquake.”
Emma felt the air explode from her lungs like someone had kicked her in the solar plexus. For a moment, she thought she was screaming, but then she looked around her and saw Baum nodding at her from across the table, while Dorothy continued to play in the backyard. The only sound was that of the kitchen faucet, dripping as it had for years.
Frank Baum took a check from his briefcase. Emma could make out her name, printed clearly, along with the dollar amount.
“This offer might not be available tomorrow,” Baum said. “Tomorrow might be something else again.” He pushed his gold pen across the table. “So, Mrs. Grant. What do you say?”
SEIZE THE DAY
IF CHARLIE RICHTER WANTED TO SAVE LOS ANGELES, HIS margin of error stood at less than one-tenth of a percent. Yet every time he thought seriously about his plan, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
On Tuesday night, Charlie would fly into Honolulu, where he would pick up plastic explosives before chartering a plane to the tiny island of Lui. There, he would use his rusty surveyor’s skills to find the location his calculations had pinpointed: latitude 155.0357 degrees, longitude 19.8381. Two centuries earlier, a small volcano had anchored the spot, and Charlie hoped there were still some vestiges of rock and earth to mark it. If not, he thought, his face twitching into a grimace, I’m fucked. And so is L.A.