days.”
A lot more awkward than Chan knew.
But he said gruffly, “Okay. But promise me you’re not planning to do something
stupid.”
Like he thought I actually planned ahead when I wanted to do something stupid? I
said, “Paul, it was just curiosity. Jesus, if it’s that big of a deal, don’t tell me.”
He sighed. “No, I got the intel for you. Oliver Garibaldi owns a second home in Bel Air.
Do you have a pencil?”
I stopped doodling little devil faces on the pad in front of me, and took down the
address.
“Thanks, I owe you one.”
“You can pay me back by not misusing this information. Jake will have my balls if you
get into trouble.”
“He’ll only find out if you tell him,” I said. I thanked him again and rang off.
One last try, I thought. One last effort before I gave up and took my lame-ass story to
the cops and let them try to sort it out – whether it compromised Jake or not.
* * * * *
The house, located in one of Los Angeles’ most prestigious neighborhoods, was a gated,
pseudo-English Tudor mansion on a nice chunk of manicured real estate. It could have
modeled for cover art on The Dain Curse.
I parked far down the shady street and prepared to wait, sitting low in the Forester,
baseball cap pulled over my face. When there were no cars or people around – which was
most of the time – I used my binoculars to watch the front of the house – not that there was
anything to see. Trees effectively blocked most of the windows.
I listened to Rufus Wainwright’s Poses a couple of times. After the fourth time, I
wished I’d brought some other CDs.
No one came, no one went. No sign of life anywhere. The neighborhood was a quiet
one, reminding me of Lisa’s home in Porter Ranch, though here there was no pretense at
being rural. The houses all sat well back from the street behind tall gates and vigorous
foliage.
After a couple of boring hours that knotted up my back and gave me way too much
time to think about things I didn’t want to think about, I drove to a gas station, used the
restroom, and stocked up on bottled water, chips, Ding Dongs, and mini doughnuts. The tune
from “Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk” was playing in my head as I paid a small fortune for
my repast. Like Rufus, everything I liked these days seemed a little bit strange and a little bit
deadly.
When I drove slowly past the Garibaldi estate, the iron gates were wide open. A blue
sedan was parked in the circular front court. I kept on driving, parking far down the opposite
end of the street. I pulled out my binoculars.
Total void. I couldn’t see anyone. I swore. Talk about the world’s worst timing…
Was there a back entrance to the estate? The problem with one-man surveillance was
that I didn’t dare leave except when the call of nature got too loud. And I wasn’t quite
dedicated enough to the cause to try pissing into a bottle.
A cleaning van roared up, blocking my view of the house. I started the engine and
drove still further down the street, parking on the opposite side this time. I knew I was
pushing my luck. If I stayed positioned on this street much longer, the cops would be
checking me out. Even if the cops didn’t bother with me, I couldn’t afford to attract my
target’s attention. The afternoon wore on. My patience wore out.
The ring of my cell nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. I found the phone, verified the
caller ID. Lisa. That could wait.
Time for another pit stop. I returned to the gas station convenience store. Resisting the
lure of comic books and Jawbreakers, I gave Guy a call.
“I need your help,” I said. “Feel free to say no.”
He said dryly, “I think you know I’m not going to tell you no.”
“It involves doing something illegal.”
He was silent.
“The thing is,” I said, “if I’m right, then there’s a chance you can clear yourself with the
cops.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“We could both wind up in jail or dead.”
He said at last, “I take it you’re going ahead with this plan whether I help you or not?”
“If you won’t help, I’ll try to think of another way.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said. “What is it you need me to do?”
Thirty minutes later the Miata pulled into the convenience store parking lot, and I
climbed in. After I had directed Guy where to drive, he said, “Why don’t we call the police?”
“We will, if I’m right. I want to make sure first.”
“Isn’t that for the police to determine?”
I didn’t want to explain to him that I’d pretty much used all my wild-goose-chase
credits with the cops on Sunday.
I directed Guy to a hill behind the estate. We had a better partial view of the front
courtyard, though trees effectively blocked the back of the house. I could see the glint of a
pool through the greenery.
“I’m not sure what good this is doing,” Guy said. “We can’t see a bloody thing.”
“We can see who comes and goes. When it’s dark we can park back on the street.”
“If they were up to anything illegal, would they have cleaners in?”
“Maybe.” I wondered about that myself. “They’re obviously getting ready for some
event.”
“The whole town is getting ready for some event. It’s called Christmas.” Guy turned on
the radio, and as though to illustrate his point, Bing Crosby babababooed “White Christmas.”
We listened in silence to the music. The cleaning van departed. The blue sedan still sat
in the driveway.
Guy cleared his throat, disturbing my thoughts. “This guy you’re seeing,” he began.
“That’s over.”
I felt his stare. I kept the binoculars trained on the house.
“But are you over it?” he asked finally.
I smiled. I knew I was not fooling anyone. “No.”
A beat.
“Any chance of reconciliation?”
“No.” I could hear the anger in that one tight word and figured Guy caught it too. That
was probably just as well.
He let it go.
Silence fell between us.
“If you want to close your eyes for a bit, I’ll watch,” he said after a time.
“I’m not tired.”
“No?” His tone was derisive, but there was an undertone of gentleness. I studied him