Then it was cotton candy and the Ferris wheel. They stopped at the top, looked down at the lights of the carnival and the San Fernando Valley. It was a warm night. The breeze carried the scent of eucalyptus, dry grass, and a touch of LA perfume from the freeway.
Just before the descent he caught sight of the ride at the end of the park. He turned to Ashley. “Let's go on that next,” he said.
She looked where he pointed. “What, the Zipper?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you hated those rides,” she said.
“I want to try it,” he said. “I want to try it with you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The wheel slowed as they neared the ground.
“The Zipper makes me nervous,” she said.
“Have a little faith,” Steve said.
Ashley looked at him as if trying to read his thoughts. Steve held her gaze. The colored lights reflected in her eyes like a neon dream. A dream of good things.
She smiled then and took his hand.
“Let's go for it,” she said.
1.
Hey, buddy! Long time! Tracked you down after reading your
blurb on the Prominent Alumni page. Prominent! You made it,
buddy. I always knew you would, though it was all pretty crazy
back there freshman year. Remember that? Wild times, oh yes. How'd we ever make it out of the dorm!
So I found your law firm website and then you and here I
am! I'm in town! We have a lot of catching up to do. Call me,
man. Can't wait to see you.
Sam Trask vaguely remembered the name at the end of the email. You remember guys named Nicky, even if you don't think about them for twenty-five years.
Nicky Oberlin.
That's how he'd signed the email, along with a phone number.
The tightness in his chest, the clenching he'd been feeling for the last few weeks, returned. Why should that happen because of one random email? Because it presented a complication, a thing that called for a response. He did not need that now, not with the way things were at home.
Sam took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair in his Beverly Hills office, and tried to relax. Didn't happen. He kept seeing his daughter's face in his mind. She was screaming at him.
A quick knock on his door bumped Sam from his thoughts. Lew poked his head in. “A minute?”
Sam motioned him in. Lew Newman was Sam's age, forty-seven, and wore his sandy hair short, which gave his sharp nose and alert eyes added prominence. When Lew was with the Brooklyn DA's office he was known as the Hawk, and Sam could see why. He would've hated to be a witness about to be pecked by the Hawk's cross-examination. He was glad they were partners and not adversaries.
“We're going into high gear against the good old US of A this week,” Lew said.
Sam nodded. “Got it on the radar.” The FulCo case was by far the biggest Newman & Trask had ever handled. Potentially a billion at stake. That thought gave Sam's chest another squeeze.
“Cleared everything else?” Lew said.
“One matter to take care of.”
“What's that?”
“Harper.”
Lew rolled his eyes. “Hasn't that settled?”
“I'll take care of it.”
“Please do.”
“I said I would, okay?”
Lew put his hands up. “Just asking. I get to ask, don't I?”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“Need you, buddy. I know things haven't been the best with â ”
“I can handle it, Lew.”
His partner nodded. “How's Heather doing, anyway?”
Sam did not want to talk about his daughter, not now. “We're working on it.”
“Good. She'll pull through. She's a good kid.”
Sam said nothing.
“So on Harper â ”
“Lew, please â ”
“Let me just say this once, okay? We do have a business to run, and â ”
“You want me to get rid of the Harper file ASAP.”
“That would be nice. Can you settle?”
“Not right away.”
“Why not?”
“I need more discovery or it'll be undervalued.”
“Come on, Sam. What about your value to the shop?”
Always preoccupied with the cost-benefit analysis, Lew was. Maybe that was what really had changed for Sam in the last four years. After his conversion, a little of the drive for the dollar had gone from his life.
As if sensing he'd stuck a foot over the line, Lew said, “Look, I trust your judgment, of course. But a quick settlement surely is going to be within the ballpark, give or take, and what's the problem with that?”
“No problem at all. Girl goes blind, we can toss her a few bones and move on.”
“Come on, I don't mean that. Just think about it for me, will you? Harper off the table. I love you, sweetie.” He made a golfing motion. “How about eighteen next week?”
Golf was always the way Lew made up. “Sure.”
“I love you more,” Lew said, then left.
For a long time Sam swiveled in his chair, as if the motion would gently rock his thoughts into some cohesive order. But it wasn't happening, because Sarah Harper was not a case he wanted to expedite.
The tightness came back. Come on, he scolded himself. No heart attack. You're not even fifty years old yet. Guys like you don't die before fifty. He kept in shape, ran three miles every other day, didn't have too many extra pounds. But he knew there was no guarantee. One of his old friends from UCLA Law had just gone to the cooling rack after playing pickup basketball.
One minute Tom had been a hard-charging partner at O'Melveny, and boom, the next he's an obit in
California Lawyer.
It could happen to anyone.
Sam rubbed his chest and looked back at the monitor. Nicky Oberlin. He tried to remember the face that went with the name. Didn't come to him.
Truth was, a lot of that first year at UC Santa Barbara up the coast was lost in a brain fog. He was still a long way off from a sober life then, and most of what he remembered of freshman year was a dorm known for grass and beer and late-night parties.
So this blast from the past was hearkening back to days he'd just as soon forget.
Was he the guy who came into his dorm room one night, hammered to the gills, and tried to roll out Sam's bed â while Sam was still in it? A lot of crazy things happened back then. It was a wonder any of them passed their classes.
Yeah, that might have been Nicky, a little guy with a moustache. But then again . . . brain fog.
And in the fog, like the trill of a night bird, a faint vibration of unease. Oberlin had sent this to Sam's private email address. It wasn't posted on the firm's site. It would have taken some doing to find it. Apparently, Oberlin had. Which bothered him no end. It was like . . . an intrusion, and by a guy he really didn't know.
He closed his eyes for a moment and expressed his favorite prayer of late, for wisdom. Having a seventeen-year-old daughter who seemed determined to throw her life down the toilet necessitated divine intervention on a daily basis.
Now he needed wisdom for his professional life. The Harper family had come to him in their hour of greatest need. He would not drop the ball.
He took a deep breath. This was not what he thought life would be at this point in his career. He thought he'd be at the pinnacle of his profession, able to coast along at a hardworking but smooth pace, with his wife and kids along for the ride.
Instead, he was tighter than a hangman's rope and wondering if the American dream was imploding on him.
He didn't need any more tasks or obligations, no matter how small. With a touch of his index finger he deleted Nicky Oberlin's email.
He hoped Nicky wouldn't take offense.
2.
Heather Trask wondered if he would be the one.
He had the right look. She liked long hair that hung down wavy, especially if it was blond. He had great style too, judging from the way he tapped the table with his hands. He played drums for a band called Route Eighteen.
And he clearly had his eye on her. Always gave her a half smile whenever their eyes met.
Would he be the one, her first time, so she could get it over with?
Roz, who was holding court as usual at an outdoor table at Star-bucks, was already well schooled in the guy department. She'd burned through three boyfriends in the last year. Heather hadn't had even one yet. Roz was older than Heather by only two years but had a worldliness Heather could only admire.
Heather also loved the way Roz could cut and color her hair any which way, without a thought. Right now it was short and hot pink. Heather wasn't quite ready to chop her shoulder-length tresses and go from brown to a more luminescent tone. Maybe she would once she got out of the house.
Maybe then she'd feel like she really fit the puzzle. The pieces at home were all jumbled. She wasn't a piece there; she was a hole. The church thing wasn't going to happen for her, and her parents' disappointment made her feel like an alien presence in the home she grew up in.
Depression washed over her again. She'd been feeling so much of the dark side lately. She was using it in her songs, which Roz said were bordering on genius. Still, it was like a big, black weight on her, and she was sick of it.
Her mom and dad's solution? God. Jesus. Church.
Why couldn't she get into religion? It just didn't click, the tumblers didn't fall. Something was wrong with her brain. It wasn't a Trask brain, and she could see that thought in her parents' pained eyes with every new confrontation.
She needed to get out of there. They'd be much happier and she could finally see if there was something in this world that made sense. She could get on with things she should already have gotten to at seventeen.
So, she wondered, would her first time be with the drummer?
There were eight of them around the black iron table, crammed in and chattering away through a haze of cigarette smoke. Heather didn't really like smoking that much but did it anyway. Image. The hard part was covering up the smell when she got home.
Big Red cinnamon gum was good for the breath part. As far as her hair and clothes, well, she just told her mom it was because she'd been at Starbucks at an outside table. You just couldn't get away from the smoke out there.
She didn't think her mom totally bought that, but at least she didn't press the issue. Her dad was the one who would've made the big deal, but he was always so busy he never noticed.
“They could've taken the geek-rock crown from Weezer,” she heard Drummer Boy saying. “But they turned to slacker romanticism.”
Oh, no. Was he one of those pretentious, know-everything-about-music types? The kind who couldn't shut it once you got them started?
“Their last CD was nothing but lo-fi jangle and lush fuzz.”
Yep.
“Detached and boring,” Drummer Boy concluded loudly.
Just like you, Heather thought.
Drummer Boy brought his chair over to her side. He smiled at her and said, “Are you Jamaican?”
“What?”
“'Cause j-makin' me crazy.”
She closed her eyes.
No way he'd be the one.
Maybe she should just let it be random and hope for the best.
Or maybe there wasn't going to be any
best.
What would she do then?
3.
“Don't worry, I'm not one of
those
kind of wives, complaining up and down about how much time her husband spends at the office.”
Sam took a root beer from the refrigerator, turned to face his wife. “But a little complaining every now and again never hurt, right?”
“Is that what you think I do?”
“Not in so many words, but lately . . .”
“Lately what?” She put her hands on her hips.
Uh-oh. Sam called that the Gesture, but not to Linda's face. The Gesture always raised his macho hackles. His wife was smart and insightful, and she could usually see through him. Drove him crazy sometimes. And when she was angry, and her hazel eyes caught the light, they sparked like flint on stone.
“Hints,” he said. “You drop hints.”
“What, would you rather I hit you right between the eyes?”
“Maybe a little more directness
would
be a good thing.”
“Maybe I don't want to add to your stress, okay? Did you ever think of it that way?”
“Of course.” He stepped over to her to kiss her. She gave him her cheek. “Don't pout,” he said.
“When you deserve these lips again, you'll get them.”
“How about I bribe you with my stunning culinary skill?”
“I'm listening.”
“I'll cook up some steaks.”
“You get one lip for that,” Linda said. “Both if the steaks come out right.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“Take it. Now pay me on account.”
She kissed him. A short one.
“You have inspired me with visions of things to come,” Sam said. “I shall cook masterpieces.”
“For you, me, and Max.”
“Where's Heather?”
Linda paused. “She's out.”
“With who?”
“Let's not.”
Dead giveaway. “Not that Roz girl.”
“Sam, I know â ”
“I thought we told her â ”
“Sam, please. We've been through it with her and it just leads to more anger.”
Indeed, his circuits were charged. They sizzled with a high current whenever the subject of Heather's associations came up.
“Who's in control around here? I don't want her seeing that girl.”
“Heather is seventeen and pigheaded, like someone else I know.”
She said it in a lighthearted way, but Sam wasn't into being light at the moment. “What if she wanted to go out with a serial killer?”
“Sam, Roz is hardly a serial killer.”
“She's trouble, is what she is.”