The Venice boardwalk hadn’t changed much. The same T-shirt and sunglasses stores, a poster shop, a lot of food stands and restaurants-a couple of which did seem more upmarket than what had been here a few years ago-interspersed with newer condos that looked like concrete bunkers had mated with aquariums. On the beach side, vendors sold crafts, incense, political bumper stickers and buttons and 9/11 Truther literature. There were tarot readers, a freak show, performers, some playing music, others juggling chainsaws, and that guy who wore a turban and roller blades and played an electric guitar, singing about a man from Mars. He’d been in so many TV shows and commercials that he had to be living pretty well off his residuals by now, Michelle thought. The crowd was the usual mix of tourists and locals, people riding beach cruisers and skateboards, street kids begging for change, would-be gangsters walking their pit bulls. A homeless man worked on a cartoonish sand sculpture of a mermaid with huge breasts, the magic marker scrawl on a piece of cardboard requesting no photos without a donation. Another man with a boa constrictor wrapped around his neck pedaled past on a unicycle.
“Oh, would you look at that!” Caitlin said, with an exasperated chuckle.
Michelle looked to where she pointed.
Medical Marijuana Evaluation, the sign said. Also, Botox by the Beach.
“Nice to know you can get everything you need in one place,” Caitlin said, rolling her eyes.
They passed another cannabis clinic, this one a smaller fluorescent-green storefront, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a shop that sold “tobacco water pipes and smoking accessories.” Two women barely out of their teens wearing bikini tops, cut-off shorts and leis made of fake marijuana leaves stood out in front. “Get legal!” they called out. “Free evaluation!” The customers waiting inside looked mostly young, scruffy and stoned, some holding skateboards and grimy backpacks.
“I’m sure there’s all kinds of legitimate medical needs going on there,” Caitlin muttered.
“I think we go this way,” Michelle said. This was not a subject she wanted to talk about.
Abbot Kinney had gentrified a lot in her last few years in Los Angeles, but walking down the street now, Michelle could see it had gone even more upscale during her time away. Expensive boutiques, designer-furniture stores and foodie restaurants filled the mostly low, vintage brick and California Spanish stucco buildings, with the occasional modernist cube thrown in. New faux lofts had sprung up behind the main street in places.
When Michelle was younger, Venice had been bohemian, cheap and somewhat dangerous. It looked like none of those things now.
Michelle watched Caitlin as she paused to look at a purse in a display window. “Now that is cute,” she was saying. Like they were two girlfriends out for an afternoon of shopping and cocktails.
There was danger here, all right, but not from gangbangers or meth heads. The danger came from very high places, likely from Caitlin’s own inner circle, and it was following them both, Michelle knew.
And Caitlin had no idea.
At least, Michelle didn’t think she did.
x x x
“Thank you for agreeing to see me.” Troy Stone rose, and offered his hand. He’d secured a booth on the bar side of Hal’s restaurant.
Hal’s was a neighborhood fixture and Industry hangout, even back in the days when Abbot Kinney had been on the border of a gang war. Michelle had always liked the place. Dark granite floors, white walls with rotating art, a high ceiling, and acoustics that during the day actually allowed for conversation. A good choice for a meeting.
“My pleasure, Mr. Stone,” Caitlin said, taking his hand briefly. Her guarded look was back, the politeness held at a distance.
“Troy, please.”
Today he wore a Lacoste mustard polo shirt and khaki chinos. The polo showed his broad chest, the sleeves cutting across his biceps. If he hadn’t been an athlete, he looked like one, a recently retired jock who still hit the gym to keep his gut in check.
Caitlin and Michelle sat down across from him.
“What can I get you ladies to drink?”
Caitlin wanted chardonnay, of course. Troy opted for beer. Michelle stuck with Pellegrino. “She’s trying to be a good influence on me,” Caitlin said with a grin, that flirtatiousness typical of her returning for a moment. “I’m not sure it’s taking, though.”
Troy chuckled. “In wine there is wisdom. In beer, there is strength. In water? There’s bacteria. I don’t know if that’s true, but I saw it on a T-shirt once.”
They both have their charming masks on, Michelle thought.
“Have you lived in Venice long?” she asked.
He leaned back and sipped his beer. A Red Stripe. “You might say that. I’m in my grandparent’s old house, a few blocks from here. We were able to keep it in the family, when they passed.”
“Oakwood? Michelle asked.
He held himself still for a moment.
Was he insulted? Maybe it was another assumption she shouldn’t have made.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re familiar with the history here, I take it.”
“I lived in LA for a long time.”
Troy smiled easily. Turned to Caitlin. “Oakwood has been a black neighborhood from the time they built Venice, over a hundred years ago. Mostly due to employees of Abbot Kinney, the founder. He wanted to make sure there was a place where his chauffeur could live, seeing how black folk couldn’t own property in much of Los Angeles. Of course there’s fewer of us here now, with all the gentrification going on.”
“I heard Google moved in,” Michelle said.
“Yep, and a Whole Foods. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying that Whole Foods. But there are still plenty of people around here who can’t afford it. They’re living just a few blocks away, but it’s a different world.”
He was working his way into his pitch. So many people in LA had a pitch, and Michelle had heard so many of them.
Their screenplays. Their bands. Their high-concept restaurants.
Their charities.
Now it was Caitlin’s turn to smile. “Tell me more, Mr. Stone-Troy.”
Caitlin, apparently, had heard her share as well.
A small grimace crossed his face, and then a short burst of a sigh. “Look, we can sit here and talk about economic opportunity and social justice and all of those big issues, but that’s not why I wanted to talk to you, and I think you know it.”
Caitlin seemed surprised. Maybe she’d expected a little more small talk before getting down to business. “I’m not sure that I do. Though I assume it has to do with our election efforts here.”
“It does. Look, I believe your intentions are good, but those propositions have the potential to make a positive impact in a lot of communities here.”
“Really? Legalizing pot is good for communities?” She smiled deliberately. “Like liquor stores are?”
He leaned forward. Not quite in her space, but closing the gap. “What you need to understand is that people of color who are not wealthy tend to have very different interactions with law enforcement and the justice system than white, affluent folks do.”
“I do understand that, actually.” Her voice had turned hard. Defensive. “I realize there are some problems with how the law is applied. But that doesn’t change the need for appropriate laws. And it doesn’t remove the danger of being too lenient in how we deal with criminals.”
This had gotten offtrack very quickly, Michelle thought. Troy and Caitlin were bristling at each other when they’d barely started talking.
“It goes beyond ‘some problems,’” he said. “If you need statistics, I can quote them all day. But here’s one that’s relevant to your efforts. Whites and blacks smoke marijuana at about the same rates. On average, a black kid is four times more likely to get arrested for possession. In some places? Up to thirty times more likely. In poor neighborhoods where there’s a heavy police presence, a lot of black kids end up with a so-called extensive criminal history that’s nothing but minor possession busts. And that record follows them around for the rest of their lives. You know that blacks are ten times more likely to go to prison for a drug offense than whites?”