Shephard considered her loveliness, her rage, her strength, her pain, her invitation. As he looked at her, the list went on and on.
“I’d love to be the company,” he said finally, and then she was gone.
The California DMV in Sacramento had unsnarled its computer jam sometime during Shephard’s press conference. Pavlik had left a note on his desk in his inimitably cramped, precarious handwriting. The registered owner of the car bearing plates 156 DSN was Dick Moon of 4887 S. Coast Highway in Laguna Beach.
Shephard pocketed the note and slipped out the back entrance of the station, watching — out of habit it seemed by now — for Daniel Pedroza loitering near the Mustang. But his car was unattended, and he was relieved as he pushed it into gear and backed from the shade of an olive tree into the fierce Laguna sun.
Ten minutes later he drove into the parking lot of Moon Chevrolet and parked beside a new Camaro. The dealership owner was a portly man wearing a polka dot shirt with a collar so wide it looked like wings. He introduced himself as Dick Moon.
“Lot of people think we named this place after the moon,” he said with a bright smile. “But Moon is me. Now, what can I get you into, young man?”
Moon’s grin disappeared when Shephard expressed interest in an aging Cadillac with the plates 156 DSN. He waddled ahead of Shephard, leading them back to the sales office, where he consulted a logbook. Moon ran his fat finger down the column and shook his head.
“Got no such car on the lot. We got a sixty-nine Valiant with those plates, no Caddy.”
“I’d like to see it,” Shephard said.
Moon bit the end off a cigar and pointed it behind him. “She’s round back,” he said. “Real cute little thing.”
Around back, Shephard found the cute little thing slouched alone beside the trash container for the parts department. The paint was peeling as if from a severe sunburn, the windows were clouded with dust, one tire was flat, and the car listed heavily to port. Moon arrived behind him, announced by the aroma of cigar.
“Not the car she used to be,” he confessed.
But very interesting just the same, Shephard thought. Joe’s Cadillac might be in service after all. “Where are the plates?” he asked, studying the naked plate holder dangling from the front.
“Stolen probably,” Moon said. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Shephard rounded the car and found the back plate gone, too. Pinched Datilla’s Caddy and swapped plates. Clean.
“How long has it been here?”
“Couple of months. Took it in trade, God knows why.” Moon puffed thoughtfully. “Hey, GM’s doing backflips to move these new Camaros. Car of the year. I’ll get you into one for peanuts and give you top dollar for the Ford. What can you go each month?”
Shephard had knelt near the front of the Valiant, inspecting the license plate holder. “Oh, no thanks, Dick. Just looking today.”
“Well, go ahead. And come back when I can get you into something you deserve.”
Moon waddled away, trailing cigar smoke. Shephard tried the doors but found them locked. No wonder the Cadillac hadn’t shown up on Sacramento’s stolen list, he thought.
When he turned to head back to the Mustang, the bells of St. Cecilia’s — whose towers rose just one block to the south — chimed a tuneful six o’clock. He stopped and listened, hearing the caller’s voice imprinted over them, taunting Hope Creeley through her answering machine. Two points for the 4800 block of South Coast Highway, he thought, and for a moment experienced the cool anxiety of standing somewhere he didn’t belong.
From the sidewalk in front of Moon Chevrolet, Shephard could see two pay telephones, one beside the gay bar called Valentine’s, the other in front of a liquor store across the street.
First he called Pavlik, to report the stolen plates to Sacramento. Then he called Dorothy Edmond again. After a half dozen rings, her whiskey voice answered in a husky hello. She spoke quietly and sincerely, apologizing for evading him earlier, explaining that certain Surfside personnel were given to listening in at the club switchboard.
She insisted that they meet the next morning at eleven anywhere that served a decent Bloody Mary. They agreed on Kano’s, a fashionable retreat in Newport Beach, that opened early on Saturdays for brunch and had a good bar.
Fifteen
Diver’s Cove was dark by nine o’clock. Shephard picked his way down the concrete steps to the beach, which was foreshortened by high tide. He lit a cigarette and walked across the sand to the near side of the cove, where he sat on the hull of a beached catamaran. A light evening breeze tapped the halyard against the mast above him, ringing a pleasant tune that carried a short distance, then vanished. The rocks of the cove cut a silhouette against an indigo sky, while the ocean gathered and dispersed the lights of nearby houses. The moon had grown since he had last noticed it, perched above the tequila bottle held by Little Theodore, and now sat far offshore, spreading threads of wavering light into the water below.
He felt giddy, nervous. How long since he had known that expectant apprehension? His insides fluttered, settled. There was a sense of velocity, too, something like the first back-straightening jolt of the Jota in low gear, something one-way and irrevocable. He imagined Jane Algernon asleep on her father’s couch, her legs tucked under the bright afghan. She said nothing about a swimsuit but he had stuffed one into the pocket of his jacket just in case. What if she swam naked and expected the same of him? His stomach went queasy as his mind filled with scenes of his last woman: the glum apologies, the strained second efforts, the final capitulation followed by heavy doses of guilt and whiskey. And the worst part was that the desire was there, but fouled, short-circuited.
The hollow sound of wooden sandals on concrete echoed behind him. Shephard turned to see a figure in white descending the steps, then heard the thud of shoes hitting sand. He watched her stoop, pluck the shoes from the ground, and continue across the beach toward him, while her dress — he could see it was a dress now, white and loose — lifted in the onshore breeze. A large athletic bag hung from her shoulder. She stopped a few feet from him, backlit by the houses, one side of her face picking up the light from the moon. Shephard stood.
“There are only two rules I have out here,” she said quietly. “One is no words, the other is no worries. Do those sound all right to you?” Behind her, a house light blinked off.
“They sound easy,” he said.
“Here,” she took his hand. “This way.”
They paralleled the shore, moving north. Shephard stopped to take off his shoes and socks and roll up his cuffs. The water splashed warm against his ankles as they sloshed along the beach. Ahead of him he could see a tall outcropping of rocks in the near distance. When they got closer, a dark bird left the top with a heavy beating of wings. The waves, small and cylindrical, smacked sharply against the high-tide beach. Shephard thought about her rules. They seemed aptly chosen. Each time the brine swarmed around his feet and receded, he felt as if a measurable quantity of words and worries were being carried away by the sea. By the time they reached the rocks he seemed lighter, less bound to what was behind them. His heart pounded nervously.