Frye excused himself from Cristobel, already the target of Burke Parsons’s attentions.
They left the ballroom and took the walkway toward the swimming pool. Edison held open the gate. The pool was huge and elaborately shaped, with deck chairs around it and a bunch of kids splashing in the shallow end. Frye watched branches of light and shadow spread and wobble along the bottom. Edison sat on a chaise lounge.
“Well, I guess that was one helluva scene you and Tuy Nha walked in on last night.”
“Right up there with the worst of them, Pop. Is there any more news about Li?”
Edison shook his head and loosened his necktie.
“Would you tell me if there was?”
His father looked at him, checked his watch. “I see what happens when you get involved in your brother’s business, son.”
“What do I have to do? Bring Li to Frye Island on a Rose Parade float?”
“You’d probably steer it into the bay.”
“And let her drown, like I let Debbie drown. Right?”
Edison stood up. “That’s horseshit, Chuck, Not me, not your mother, nobody ever said that.”
“It’s what you believed though, isn’t it?”
Edison stood before him, nose-to-nose. “What in hell’s wrong with you?”
“I’m locked out.”
“You’re nothing you haven’t asked for.”
“What I’m asking now is to be let back in.”
“You got off in Chicago, Chuck, and the train kept going to New York.”
Frye stepped back, looked out to the pool. “Who’s Paul DeCord? And don’t tell me he works for Health and Human Services. He’s taking pictures of Benny, visiting Minh, and sitting with you.”
Edison glared at him. “I just met the sonofabitch myself, son. He’s a friend of Lucia’s, and he’s a Fed researcher, for chrissakes. What do you mean, taking pictures of Benny?”
“You know about the medical supplies Bennett sends over?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, DeCord’s documenting it. What I’m telling you now is to be careful what you say. I don’t know who the hell this guy is, and neither do you.”
Edison shook his head, the same way he did twenty years ago when Frye had started up the family station wagon and driven it through the garage door. He checked his watch. “I don’t want to miss the main event. Heavyweights.”
“Where’s Mom tonight?”
“She canceled last minute, Chuck. Wasn’t feeling up to it.”
“What are you doing here?”
Edison looked at him, a long cool stare. “Lucia’s a major investor in the Paradiso, and this is a chance to talk strategy. I’ve got better things to be doing right now, but we made the date a month ago. You have a problem with that?”
“Yeah. You got my old seat. It’s the best one in the house.”
Edison turned and walked back through the gate, letting it slam behind him.
In the main event, a Nigerian heavyweight lost a close decision to a big kid from San Diego. The Nigerian left the ring in a tiger-print robe. Frye was certain that no tigers lived in Nigeria. He watched the boy from San Diego parade around the ring after, toothlessly demanding Mike Tyson. Mike Tyson would knock you out before you got off your stool, Frye thought. He watched through the binoculars, but the fight seemed less compelling than Lucia, Burke, DeCord, and Edison. Just after the ninth round, they left their seats and trailed up the aisle. His father walked closely behind Lucia, and Frye thought: He looks like a dog.
“You got quiet after that walk with your dad,” said Cristobel.
“You don’t have much leverage on the topic of quiet.”
“That’s pretty romantic for a first date.”
“You want a romance, buy one at the market.”
“You can be a real prick, can’t you?”
“It’s genetic. Come on, I want to see if Rollie Dean Mack is up in his suite now.”
They took the elevator to the eighth floor. Frye led her around the corner and down the long hallway. He knocked, tried the door, and knocked again.
“Not your night with this Mack guy,” Cristobel said.
They had just started for the elevator when Frye heard Edison’s laughter booming up the stairwell behind them. He stopped and peered around the corner. Lucia Parsons climbed the last few steps, Edison behind her. They made their way to the Elite Management suite and Lucia opened the door with a key. She took Edison by the arm and led him in.
“Not what you wanted to see, exactly?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s not what it looks like.”
“Nothing much is these days.”
“Let’s go home, Chuck.”
They walked along the beach near Cristobel’s old blue apartment. The moon hovered through the palms of Heisler Park and the black water was smooth and glittery. Close to shore, waves dissipated into phosphorous-purple suds.
Cristobel held his hand. “Is there another way to find this Mack character?” she asked.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“I know it’s none of my business, but maybe you ought to try something different. A different paper, maybe. Let that Mack guy have his way and just get yourself a better job. You know, like play in a bigger league.”
“I got some résumés out, but it’s tough when all the publishers know what happened. He made me look bad.”
“Is that the only place he works? I mean, doesn’t Elite Management have an office or something else somewhere?”
“Newport. He’s never in. The girl who works there said she’d call me if he ever shows.”
They walked north, toward Rockpile. Frye watched a steady stream of cars heading out of the city, climbing the grade on Coast Highway.
“Let me know if I can help,” she said. “I’m good at résumés.”
“It just really pisses me off.”
“Your dad and Lucia?”
“Not so much Lucia, just... the whole thing.”
“I take it there’s some space between you.”
“A whole lot of it. I guess it’s been getting wider the last few years. Talking to him — it’s like trying to yell across an ocean to someone.”
“Have you done what you can to get through?”
“I suppose I could have stayed closer. More involved. I just kind of spun out for a while, lost contact. I’ve never been interested in the family business. That’s all Bennett and Dad now. Maybe Pop took it a lot more personal than I did.”
“Well, when a father works hard, he likes to share it. If you had better things to do, maybe he felt... like you didn’t need him.”
They walked up the zigzag stairway to the park. The path was lined with rosebushes and the grass was trimmed neatly around them. Frye led her to the gazebo that looks to the west. “I got married here,” he said.
“That’s nice.”
He looked down the ragged cliff to the rocks below, shining with ocean spray. The water hissed up the sand toward them, stopped just short, then receded.
“Miss her?”
“Yeah.”
“Going to patch it up?”
“I don’t think it’s patchable.”
“Things end. Things start.”
“There was a lot of damage. I wonder why we beat up on the people we love so much.”
“Our cages are too small.”
They sat on a bench by a cypress tree. Cristobel lay her head on Frye’s shoulder. For a while he thought she was dozing.
“It was a little over a year ago when it happened,” she said quietly. “Went to a party, had a fight with a man, and stormed out. I was a little drunk. Three blocks to walk in Long Beach — that was all. Next thing I knew, it was four men, a gun, and a car.”
Frye heard the waves crashing below.
“They took me out to a field. When it was over, I remember lying there and looking up at this big oil thing going up and down. One of those giant grasshoppers. It smelled bad. I hurt and I was freezing cold. I got my things back on and started walking, I found this workman in a shed. Big fat guy, smoking a cigar. He wrapped me up in some big towels and put me on a cot. The cops came and did their thing.”