“I love Fallbrook.”
“So do I. I like this rain, too.”
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
We talked for a few minutes about rain and lack of rain, as Southern Californians often do. I saw that her bucket was about half full of reasonably good-looking oranges. I noted that the ground around us was littered with shriveled, squirrel-chewed fruit, some of it dried black and hard.
“Do you need some help?” I asked. “Looks like lots of fruit to pick.”
“I prefer to work alone. Do you enjoy the White Power Hours?”
“This is my first,” I said. “We’re hoping to get more funding from Alfred, but a lot of hands are out.”
“Hate is so expensive,” she said. “But worth it to Alfred. He loves his work. He’ll die at his desk. Or maybe in a tent. But that’s not a cheerful thought.”
Under the brim of her big hat, her face was plump and her complexion rosy. Eyes like little blue pools. “What does your group believe in?”
“Exactly that — family values.”
“I love family values. Pies and picnics and — when they list the American boys killed in action on PBS? I tear up.”
A cheer came from the crowd on top of the hill. As it trailed off, Odysseus’s amplified words cut through. Something about “the only meaningful thing Muslims have ever done in America is 9/11!” before the applause flooded over his voice again.
I looked up to see two chinos-and-golf-shirt SNR men staring down at me.
Time to nudge this along. “You like beautiful homes, don’t you?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Beautiful properties, like this one. And the House of Fallen Angels in Mexico.”
“Why do you ask?”
“We’re interested in renting the House of Fallen Angels for a Family Values Coalition retreat,” I said. “It has everything we need, except an affordable price. It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to Alfred about today.”
The two golf-shirted men had become three, still looking my way.
“It’s very expensive and far from here,” said Marie.
“True, it’s a long flight to Cabo. And the Fallbrook FVC isn’t exactly drowning in money.”
“So much comes down to money with these nervous little haters,” said Marie. “Last month at the White Power Hour, our keynote speaker was hawking autographed T-shirts and coffee mugs with his picture on them. Not just a logo. His face. But you seem different. Are you?”
I looked up for the men. Still there. “Something closer to Fallbrook would be less expensive, too. For our retreat, I mean.”
“When I was young I was idealistic,” said Marie. “I married the prettiest, loveliest man. He died of a disease they didn’t have a name for yet. He got his own lymphoma named for him and I got a dead husband. Alfred has been miraculous, though. I had no business marrying him at my age, and being crazy. Or so they say. He’s much kinder than he looks. Empathetic, too, which is unusual in someone who hates people different than himself. He was raped as a child. He still screams when he dreams. Don’t tell him I told.”
“Never.”
“What was it you were talking about?”
“Renting a beautiful property for a Family Values Coalition retreat,” I said. “It’s in April of next year. We have a respectable budget, but not a fortune.”
The men started down the embankment, heading for the grove, one of them on his phone.
“Come closer,” said Marie.
I stopped in front of her. I could hear the distant crunch of the men moving through dead leaves. Marie lifted a white-gloved hand to my face, put her thumb on the hollow of one cheek and stretched her fingers to the other, bridging my mouth with her palm. Her small blue eyes seemed to have iced over. Pupils like pinheads. She turned my face to the left. To the right. Then stared at me straight on.
“What do you want?”
“A good deal on a luxury property. To rent for our retreat.”
“I see no hate in you,” she said. “But someone has given you a good old-fashioned beating. I’ll bet you’re plotting something. What? Quickly, Mr. Hooper — what are you plotting!”
“It’s Hopper.”
“They’re coming, Hopper. Answer me!”
“Vengeance.”
“Is that a family value?”
“There are some family values in my vengeance, yes.”
She let go of my face, stood back, and picked up her bucket. I could hear the men closing in. A burst of rain. I put my hat on. The downpour swiftly turned to a drizzle. I shook the water off my hat, put it back on again.
“Rain in Eden,” said Marie.
“Do you have a rental for me or not?”
She looked hurt. “Possibly. I bought another lovely property just recently. It’s where a cotton field used to be, up north in San Clemente, I think. I was there for a while. But Alfred brought me back down here last week because he needed it for something.”
“I wonder what.”
“Alfred doesn’t tell me all his business,” said Marie. “I’m just his bank. And a good one I am. You two can talk about a fair price. But I am willing to rent our property to your group, Mr. Hopper. I do have some sway here. I like what I see in you. And what I don’t.”
Through the dripping orange trees the three golf shirts approached, well watered by the last monsoonal dump.
“Marie, is this man bothering you?”
“Not at all. We were just conducting a little business. You look familiar.”
“Jason, ma’am. And Bo and Miller.”
“Jason and the Argonauts! I remember you.”
They were young and fit, and their drenched shirts were tucked in, their half-soaked khakis pressed. I could see on their faces that they were eager to get at me. But no evidence that they knew who I was.
“Mister,” said Jason. “Alfred told us to keep the rally crowd in the tent area and off his private property. Last month there was some damage and possibly theft. So, please, let Mrs. Battle pick her oranges. And you come with us now.”
I put my hat back on and tipped it to Marie Battle. She smiled and gave me a little wave, brief, half secret.
I started back up the hill, surrounded by Jason and the Argonauts.
“What the fuck are you doing down here?” asked Jason.
“I’m with the Family Values Coalition of Fallbrook,” I said. “We’re looking for a retreat rental. Something nearby and afforda—”
“Talk to Alfred Battle. He runs the show. Don’t pick on Marie. She’s got enough problems without shitballs like you trying to pick her pockets. You want something special from Mr. Battle, go to 4chan and get in line with the other phonies. In fact, when we get to the parking lot, you get in your car and get the hell out of here.”
“Tell Mr. Battle I enjoyed the rally.”
“Beat it, asshole.”
39
Grandpa Dick’s convincing City of San Clemente emblems, attached to both flanks of a rented white Malibu, and a city Building Services Department business card he’d counterfeited were enough to get Gerald Mason past the Cyprus Shore security booth.
Dick had worked extra-hard on the vehicle signs, especially on the city seal. If prosecuted and convicted for this risky trick, he could draw a hefty judgment for defrauding the public, impersonating a public official, and copyright infringement, and I could lose my license for five years for conspiracy to defraud.
To up my chances of success with guards who might well have seen me two days earlier, I’d dyed my dark brown hair. Melinda and Liz said it now looked like vanilla-caramel-swirl ice cream. I’d added a realistic costume mustache. And there I was, Gerald Mason: big, bad, and blond. In chinos, a golf shirt, and a blazer, no less. I could have applied for work with SNR, helped them segregate, nullify, and remove those pesky mud people from the rest of us.