Orange County Noir (Akashic Noir) (17 page)

It had been the longest six months of Robbie's life. Hiding out
in a rented room in a crappy apartment building in the unincorporated part of East Orange County just off the 241 toll
road, waiting for the heat to die down back in Laguna Beach,
the town he'd grown up in, the town he could no longer afford
to live in, the town he wanted to get back to as soon as possible. All he wanted was another chance.

When the call had come from Michele late that August
afternoon, he was stoked. She wouldn't elaborate on the
phone, but she had a job for him. That was all he needed
to know.

It was a little after 3 o'clock the next afternoon when he
hopped in his two-tone-rust and primer-road-weary Corolla and headed toward Laguna. He didn't like the sound the
battered Toyota was making-bearing or ball joint?-as he
pulled up alongside the 241 toll plaza and heaved a handful of
coins at the bin. Car repairs were going to have to wait.

"Fuckin toll roads," he muttered as a BMW with a FasTrak
transponder raced by him. He grimaced. That's what this place is all about now. They make you pay to get where you're going and
pay to come back. It's all about the cash. He'd been around long
enough to know the difference between the old money that
seeded this area and the new, stupid money that was spoiling
it for everybody.

Robbie had grown up in Laguna and graduated from Laguna Beach High back when their teams were still called the
Artists, not the newly minted Breakers. After school, he'd
been eager to get away from the domestic horror show at
home, but he'd always assumed he'd stay local and figure out
a way to coexist among the filthy rich and infamous who were
determined to price him out of his hometown market. For
somebody with no real sense of direction or ambition, Robbie
quickly learned the score.

Influence, that's what it was all about. And most of the
locals didn't really want to get their own hands dirty when it
came to passing along "financial or psychological incentives"
to make things work. Robbie was happy to do what he was
told without leaving a trail. He thought of himself as smart
enough to know better, pissed off enough to not give a shit,
and savvy enough to get his assignments done without making the O.C. Register's back pages.

Bottom line, between 2002 and 2007, if Michele and Jeff
had a case in Laguna they didn't want to go to trial, or a business dispute or vendetta that needed settling the old-fashioned
way, Robbie had a hand in the "mediation." And there were
plenty of opportunities: planning commissioners trying to play
both sides, hotshot developers eager to flip properties before
the next landslide, mayors caught with their hands in the till,
lawsuit-happy execs with a taste for the strange, or city council
members laboring under the notion that they were appointed
to think for themselves.

This was no longer the sleepy little coastal hideaway that
had bored him to tears-not to mention various pharmaceutical diversions-during his teen years. No, now even a teardown shack a mile from the beach would run you a minimum
of a million bucks. Face it, the only thing tennis pro Lindsay Davenport, the dude who played Freddy Krueger in the
Nightmare on Elm Street movies, and the guy who made those
Girls Gone Wild videos had in common was they all made the
kind of "fuck you" money it now took to call Laguna Beach
home.

Robbie had to laugh as he cruised past that BMW pulled
over to the side of the 241 by a state trooper. Tickets on a toll
road! He leaned back and shook his head. They know how to
hit you where it hurts. In the fuckin' wallet.

Next stop, the toll plaza for the 133 South. More coins in
the basket for the privilege of heading west. Looking around,
Robbie remembered when this area was all orange groves and
strawberry fields, not corporate headquarters, industrial parks,
and high-end playgrounds for shopaholics. What Robbie saw
now was the reassurance of returning job security.

He'd learned his lesson: Don't let it get personal. Never lose
your cool. You're a messenger, that's all. He wasn't about to forget
these past six months of purgatory, going stir-crazy and watching his meager savings run out in the middle of nowhere. All
because he got a little too rough and didn't cover his tracks
well enough after a job.

That wouldn't happen again. And when Michele had finally called, Robbie knew he'd be on probation for a while,
but that was okay. He wouldn't let them down.

Just past the 405, the toll road portion of the 133 ended
and he cruised into Laguna Canyon. After his "sabbatical,"
it was like he was seeing the place with fresh eyes. When he was growing up, this was an eight-mile, funky two-lane road
that twisted toward the Pacific like a sidewinder on peyote.
Now there were four lanes most of the way and shuttles from
the Act V parking lot a mile from downtown. But on an August day like this, it was still stop-and-go from El Toro Road
on into town where finding a parking place for less than ten
bucks still felt like winning the lottery.

So, the Corolla inched along that final mile, until, at last,
he cruised past the grounds of the arts festivals-the Sawdust
Festival and Art-A-Fair on the left, the Festival of Arts on
the right-a mere six blocks from the "T" where the Pacific
Coast Highway briefly parallels the Main Beach boardwalk
and Laguna's famous "window to the sea." With its surf, sand,
volleyball and basketball courts, and a relatively unobstructed
view of the Pacific, Main Beach owed its existence to a movement to stop its development back in the 1960s. Its preservation was made possible by the Festival of Arts with funds
skimmed off thirty years of ticket sales to the Pageant of the
Masters. As always, money talked, and that only-in-OrangeCounty theatrical show with its "living pictures" still pulled in
crowds from all over the world every summer. And as long as
it did, the city made certain it got its cut.

Once, when he was nine, Robbie had volunteered as a
cast member in the Pageant. As a porcelain figurine. As crazy
as it sounded, that summer was just about his only decent
childhood memory, a brief refuge from the endless fights,
the drunken beatings and humiliations at home. Now, as he
passed the front entrance of the Festival of Arts with its banners and gated grounds filled with artists' displays, Robbie
remembered how, back in high school, he'd thought about
becoming an artist. Laguna certainly had enough of them. But
even then he knew himself well enough to know it wasn't in the cards. Instead, he'd just drifted after school, a loner with
no real sense of direction.

Michele and her husband Jeff, lawyers and partners in
their own two-person legal firm, had originally hired him to
run errands and do odd jobs. They liked that Robbie didn't
ask too many questions and he paid attention to details.
When had his work for them turned from just being a gofer
to the more delicate tasks of money drops and eventually
"enhanced mediation"? It had been a natural progression,
with Robbie quickly developing a feel and taste for anonymous intimidation. Most of his targets were basically smalltown cowards who were deathly afraid of having their dirty
laundry aired in the pages of the Coastline Pilot. But Robbie
didn't really care why Jeff and Michele had him do what he
did. As far as he was concerned, he got paid to turn "no"
into "yes, of course, it'll never happen again" by whatever
means was necessary.

The Corolla angled into the left lane, and when the light
changed, he turned onto Forest Avenue and cruised past the
lumberyard parking lot, City Hall, and the fire station. There
wasn't much of a chance to build any momentum before
climbing the steep "blind crest" hill up to Park Avenne, but
he was pleased that the old Toyota managed it without much
complaint. Turning left on Park, Robbie slowed just a bit as he
drove past the high school. Was he kidding himself that his
time there hadn't been so bad after all? Is this what nostalgia
feels like? If it is, it really sucks.

Park Avenue continued its winding ascent up through the
canyons and steep turns that eventually led to Thurston Middle School and Top of the World, that elite enclave of homes
with multimillion-dollar views overlooking Laguna Canyon.
Everywhere he looked, Robbie saw new houses under con struction. He'd watched most of the homes on these same
hills burn to the ground in the Laguna Canyon fires in the fall
of'93, but you'd never know it now. Taking a left at the middle
school, Robbie made his way through the maze of houses to
Skyline Drive.

Parking on the street across from another mansion-inprogress construction site, Robbie walked to the front door
of Michele and Jeff's house, a California modern, split-level
bunker of interlocking concrete and glass boxes. Checking his
watch, Robbie rang the bell on the bronze and wood double
doors. After a moment, a guy Robbie had never seen before,
about six-two, 240, opened the door and peered down at him.
Tan and ripped, the guy looked to be in his twenties. Robbie
noted that he was barefoot and wearing a Hawaiian print shirt
and shorts.

"Michele's expecting me," Robbie said, trying to cover his
surprise.

"You Robbie?" the bodybuilder said. When Robbie nodded, the guy took a moment to size him up, then opened the
door. "Michele's in the living room."

Robbie wracked his brain trying to think of a way to ask
the guy who the hell he was. As he entered the hall, he gave
up and simply muttered, "And who are you?" The guy turned
and smiled. "I'm Terry."

"You work for Michele and Jeff?"

"Michele."

Terry stepped aside and Robbie stopped short as his eyes
met Michele's. She was sitting next to the wall of windows in
the living room. In a wheelchair with a cast on her leg. She
smiled.

"Terry's my physical therapist."

"What happened?" Robbie couldn't hide his concern. He guessed Michele was probably in her late fifties by now, but
she'd always kept herself in shape. She was attractive in her
self-assurance, well built, solid, comfortable in her skin.

"Tennis. Leg one way, knee the other. Cast for another
week. I figure three months rehab minimum."

"Ouch." Robbie felt completely tongue-tied.

"Want something to drink?"

"No thanks."

"Terry, could you give its a few minutes?"

"Sure. If you need anything, just let me know."

When Terry was gone, Michele gestured for Robbie to join
her by the windows. As he sat down next to her, he suddenly
felt like a kid in the principal's office.

"It's good to see you," she said quietly.

"You too," he stammered. "How's Jeff?"

"Jeff's Jeff," she offered flatly. "He's down at the festival.
Got juried in again for his watercolors."

"No kidding," Robbie said, nodding.

"He's doing the meet-and-greet on the grounds today, always trying to drum up new business."

There was a pause, then Robbie asked, "You guys are
good?" God, that sounded even dumber than he'd feared.

"Robbie..." She looked at him, sighed, and smiled wanly.
"Let's just say we have a very spiritual relationship. Every day
we learn to live with less ..."

He looked at her, confused. "I don't ..."

"Nevermind." She smiled. "It's Jeff who needs your help.
And we both agreed it was a safe way to ease you back into
the swing of things."

"I really appreciate that. I've been goin a bit stir-crazy."

"Well, that's all behind you now. And the guy you put
in the hospital ... well, let's just say he's got other things to worry about these days. Like a company in Chapter 11 and a
palace in foreclosure."

"Look, I ..."

Michele smiled. "It's okay, Robbie. Everybody gets a mulligan. And I think you've learned your lesson."

"Yeah ... yeah."

She picked up a file and handed it to him. Opening it, he
looked at a couple of grainy photos of a guy crossing a street.
"Who's this?"

"His name's Madison. He's going after Jeff. Wants to extort two hundred grand to keep quiet."

"About what? What's he got?"

"We're not sure. But Jeff's arranged a meet with him. Tonight on the fire road up above the festival. You know where
I'm talking about?"

"That dirt road that goes up behind Tivoli Terrace with the
great view of Main Beach and the police shooting range?"

She smiled. "Nice recall."

"I used to hike up there to clear my head."

Michele leaned forward. "They're supposed to meet at
midnight at the little turnout overlooking the shooting range.
This file has all you'll need to know about Madison to put the
fear of God into him. His kids' names and ages, where they go
to school, what picture's hanging on the wall in his bedroom.
And if that doesn't scare him off, you have my blessing to
ruffle his feathers a bit. Just no easily visible bruising."

"Jeff going to be there?"

"No. You're going to get there early and surprise this arrogant little asshole. See, Madison's a ceramics exhibitor at the
festival. It seems he and Jeff have at least one thing in common. They like to pretend that art can save them from their
fundamental boorishness. News flash: it can't."

Robbie studied the file to cover his nervousness. "So, I
guess you and Jeff are-"

"Robbie ... Jeff's a lawyer; I'm a lawyer; we're partners.
If I took him to court, I could wipe him out, but we'd poison
the well in the process . . ." She pointed to the file. "You know,
there's hardly any moon tonight and that fire road can be a
bit treacherous and steep in places. I'd hate to think Madison
might fall and hurt himself."

"Right." Robbie grinned. He was relieved she was changing the subject.

"Study his file. If you can reason with him, so much the
better. If not ..."

"Midnight," said Robbie, savoring the thought.

"I recommend you park above the shooting range and cut
across. And get there early."

"Not to worry." Robbie rose, holding the file.