Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
R
iptide was ripe with the odors of tequila, aftershave, and slightly rancid cooking oil.
Liana Parlat took a stool at the far end of the spar-varnished bar, aware of male eyes shifting as she crossed the length of the room.
Long, dark room, kind of tunnel-like. Off to one side, a double-width doorway led to a small dining area. No one in there she could see.
The action was at Cocktail Central. A few couples in their thirties, the rest men batching it. Beach Boys on soundtrack.
“Don’t Worry Baby.” Her favorite. Made it easy to smile.
The smile snagged the ponytailed bartender’s attention and she ordered a Grey Goose Greyhound, rocks, twist. “Pink grapefruit juice, if you have it.”
Ponytail grinned. “Sorry, just regular.”
“That’s fine.”
“I can splash in a little cranberry, if you’d like. For color.”
“You know,” said Liana, “maybe I would rather have a Seabreeze.”
“Good choice.” The guy got to work and seconds later, the extra-large cocktail was set down in front of her. Orange slice, which she liked. Maraschino, which was all wrong.
“Yum,” she said.
“Enjoy.”
Sipping slowly, she took in the flavor of the place. “Good Vibrations” came on. Nice, but earlier stuff—the surf songs—would’ve fit better with the décor.
She figured it was mostly original: rough plank cedar walls, lacquered coils of hemp rope, ship’s lamps, circular glass balls, a couple of buoys. At least two captain’s wheels she could spot and she bet there were more in the dining room.
All of it probably a throwback to the bar’s previous life as a working-class drinkery.
Before arriving, she’d revved up the old Mac and read up on the place, found a three-year-old gushing travel piece from the
Times
that emphasized a “festive Jimmy Buffett ambience” and the occasional “spontaneous” appearance of celebs.
Britney, Paris, Brangelina, Mel, Mason, even the Governator. Supposedly, they favored the Meyer Rum Tsunami. As if anything those people did was spontaneous. Inane, but what else could you expect from a paper where half the entertainment “articles” were press releases fed by studio publicists?
Obsolete, too, because Liana found no recent name-drops, so any star appeal was history.
Celebs, like sharks, needed to keep moving to breathe.
Not that she needed the Internet to know that; when she’d walked over from Loews there wasn’t a pappo or limo in sight.
A few homeless guys, though, Aaron had been right about that. One of them gave her the willies as his watery eyes followed her twenty-yard traipse and she imagined him snagging Caitlin and dragging her into an alley.
Rather than ignore him, she stopped and stared him down.
Chancy move, but she had to follow her instincts.
The bum shrank back, resumed pushing his cart up Ocean, clattering and bumping on sidewalks long in need of repair.
Too bad those guys didn’t have to hang special license plates from their carts.
I M CRAY ZEE
.
She sipped and used her eyes discreetly. Someone at the other end of the bar laughed. The track switched to Jan and Dean. “Dead Man’s Curve,” eerily prophetic of Jan’s auto crash.
Happy song about tragedy … at least the floors were clean oak, no sawdust cliché.
Liana knew all about clichés. She trucked in them for a living— using her voice to sell feminine hygiene products, grocery specials, whatever.
Using her looks and her brains to gig for Aaron.
Not exactly what she’d dreamed about back in South Dakota, but at her stage in life, any role came up, you took it.
Tonight she’d gone for sultry but subdued: black V-neck sweater with a triangle of white cammie hiding some but not all of her cleaves, snug gray wool/Lycra slacks that hugged her like a lover.
The absence of panty line suggested bare skin underneath, but her entire lower body was sheathed in support hose.
Everyone said she looked young for her age, but Liana prided herself on self-awareness, so no sense pretending butt and belly were the way they’d been when she auditioned for
Playboy
.
Twenty years ago.
A starlet’s entire lifetime; sometimes it seemed like yesterday.
She’d walked out of the
Playboy
session beaming at the photo editor’s praise. Two days later, he called to let her down gently. Twenty-four hours after that, he phoned to ask her out.
The perfect retort had jumped into her head.
Sorry, but I limit my social life to men with normal penises
.
She’d said, “Sorry, Luigi, but I’m involved with someone.”
Twenty—
twenty-one
years ago.
Gawd!
A baritone voice said, “Come here often?”
Just loud enough to rise above the music. Liana glanced to her right.
The nervously smiling face she encountered belonged to a slightly overweight but decent-looking guy around her own age working a beer mug. Sandy hair, five o’clock shadow, nice masculine features; he’d probably been hot ten years ago.
Dark suit, pale blue dress shirt open at the collar, sensible shoes.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he said. “Glad I worked out this morning ’cause I can tell you’re no easy pickup. Your mother must have been a sculptor ’cause you’re in great shape. I thought perfection was an ideal until about a second ago.”
Liana stared.
He shrugged, smiled.
Despite herself, Liana’s lips curved in imitation.
The guy said, “Now that I’ve used up all the fresh material, I’d better lug out the hackneyed stuff.”
“You write for Leno?”
“If I did, he wouldn’t be beating out Letterman.” He extended a hand. “Steve Rau.”
In lieu of pressing flesh, Liana gave a small salute and returned to facing forward. Her top had ridden up, exposing an inch of back. She tugged it down, moved her head in time with the music.
“Ouch,” said Rau. But good-naturedly. Liana’s peripheral vision spotted motion. His hand gesturing for another beer.
As it arrived, Liana managed another of her famous sidelongs and took in the cut of his suit. Decent, but nothing custom or exceptional. The shirt was pinpoint oxford cloth, eighty bucks, give or take. The shoes were nondescript black loafers but they did look like calfskin. Bottom line: solid, not junk, not haute. Maybe Nordstrom.
Working for Aaron, she’d picked up a few things.
Steve Rau said, “I’d offer to buy you another, but you haven’t made much headway on the first and you might go military on me again.” Aping the salute.
Liana chuckled.
The bartender said, “Some nuts or shrimp, Steve?”
“No, thanks, Gus.”
You come here often?
Aaron just wanted her to soak up the atmosphere, but here was an opportunity.
She rehearsed an entry line, discarded it, searched for another. Rau
made it easy for her by saying, “This is my second beer and my last. For the record.”
Liana swiveled gracefully, gifted him with more face and body. The warm, sincere smile. “You are nothing if not temperate.”
“Temperate, sane, dependable. Gus can vouch for me.”
“Is Gus called upon to do that regularly?”
Rau got flustered. Laughed. “Only for the last three months.”
He showed her his left hand. Pale circle of skin on the ring finger. “As they say, an amicable split.”
Liana said, “Didn’t know that was possible.”
“It’s not.”
“Oops.”
“Don’t worry,” said Rau. “I’m not going to get all maudlin and mawkish.”
“A dual guarantee, huh?”
The music veered back to the Beach Boys. “Little Deuce Coupe.” The two of them sipped in silence. Liana working slowly because that was her style even when she wasn’t on the job. A man needed to be kept slightly off balance.
She said, “Seeing as you’re a regular, you know I’m not.”
“Visiting L.A.? I ask because sometimes women come over from the hotel.”
“No, I’m a native.” If you didn’t count military bases in six other states.
“Rara avis,” said Rau. “Rare bird.”
“Quo vadis,” said Liana. “Non sequitur, ipso facto. So, Steve, what do you do other than drink Heineken and indulge yourself in Latin?”
Rau motioned to the bartender. “Gus, what do I do when I’m not hunched over in self-pity?”
Gus said, “You’re a spy.”
“Double-O something, huh?”
Rau said, “Gus is embroidering. I work at RAND—the think tank, we’re not far from here, on Main.”
“You get paid to think.”
“The official title is security analyst.”
“As in stocks and bonds?”
“As in shoe bombers and suicide belt morons.” Some edge had crept into the mellow baritone. “But I’m not going to insult your intelligence by making it out as some covert, civilian contractor deal. My degree’s in economics. I play with statistics, try to spot trends. Lately, I have been doing more financial analysis than security. It’s about as exciting as watching beard stubble sprout.”
“Still,” said Liana, “at least you know you’re doing something important. How many people can say that?”
“On some lofty theoretical plane, I guess that’s true. But half my time is filling out grant applications and going to meetings. I used to do something even more blood-stirring. Want to guess?”
“College professor.”
Rau stared. “It’s that obvious?”
“You’ve got a Ph.D.”
“I said I had a degree.”
“I extrapolated.”
Rau laughed.
Liana said, “Stanford?”
“Chicago.”
“Where’d you teach?”
“Community college. All that came up were nontenured positions, so I switched gears. I was really committed to teaching, figured RAND would be temporary. It’s been twelve years, so much for spotting trends.”
Liana smiled.
Silence settled between them for several moments before Rau spoke up. “So what do you do—fill in name here.”
“Laura,” she said. Fishing out the alias she’d used for the
Playboy
shoot because it didn’t sound that different from her real name.
Laura Layne
. Sometimes she carried pink satin business cards in her purse … had she brought any tonight?
Twenty-one years ago.
Rau said, “Same question, Laura. What occupies your days?”
“I’m in between obligations,” she said. “My c.v. includes teaching preschool, executive assisting, interior designing, house-sitting, and, before all that, waitressing, big surprise.”
“Ah,” said Rau. “How many pilots have you been in?”
“It’s that obvious?”
“RAND doesn’t pay me for not reading big print.”
“Well,” said Liana, “RAND wouldn’t have gotten their money’s worth this time. Acting’s not my thing. Like I said, I’m a California native, not some kid off the bus from Iowa.”
“Sorry,” said Rau. “For assuming. May I dig myself out by suggesting you take it as a compliment, as in ‘looks like an actress’?”
Liana swiveled on her stool and offered him a full view of the goods. “I get that all the time and, yes, I do take it as a compliment.”
Rau mimed wiping his brow. “Phew—so … I ask this at great risk—of all the gin joints …”
“I was at Loews, having dinner with friends. It broke up early— they’re all married with kids and needed to return to their mundane lives. I wasn’t quite ready for a quiet night with Kurt Vonnegut.”
“Slaughterhouse-Five?”
“Welcome to the Monkey House.”
“Never read that one … I met Joseph Heller, once.
Catch-22?”
“Did you?”
“Yup,” said Rau. “I was in fifth grade and he gave a speech at the U. and my dad was on faculty there—in the med school—and he insisted on taking me. Wanting me to soak up some antiwar fervor. At ten, I was pretty apolitical.”
“Dad wasn’t.”
“Dad was a
highly
principled man.” Putting rough emphasis on the word and for a second, Rau’s face toughened up.
Anger turned him appealingly masculine.
Liana said, “So he dragged you along.”
“He dragged me and after the speech, he insisted we both go up to Heller, going on about how the guy’s a genius, meanwhile I’d daydreamed
through the whole thing. Dad pumps Heller’s hand, makes sure I shake, too, then he goes off on this big oration about
Catch-22
being the ultimate antiwar masterpiece. Heller looks at him and says, ‘It’s not about war, it’s about bureaucracy.’”
“Poor Dad.”
“It fazed him, but only temporarily. During the ride home, he informed me authors sometimes didn’t understand their own motivation.”
“Motivation,” said Liana. “A med school prof. I’m putting money on psychiatrist.”
Rau’s smile was wide, warm. Nice teeth. “You should think about RAND.”
“Like they’d take me.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I sure would.”
Several beats.
“So you’re in between obligations,” said Rau. “Sounds nice.”
“It can be.”
Rau scratched his temple. “Laura, I’m not good at this, but… since you’ve already had dinner I know suggesting we shift to the dining area is out of the question. So is, I imagine,
blowing
this gin joint.”
“I didn’t hear a question in there, Steve. But yes, I think I’ll stay put.”
Rau beat his breast, bowed his head. “Aargh. Hopes dashed asunder.”
Liana touched his jacket sleeve. Smooth fabric, maybe better than she’d initially appraised. “Steve, I wouldn’t be a very smart girl if I waltzed off with someone I just met.”
“Of course … would it be totally out of line asking you for your number?”
Poor guy was blushing.
“Why don’t you give me yours?”
Liana expected another burst of self-deprecation but he seemed
pleased, as he fished into his pocket, drew out a battered wallet, then a RAND business card.
On the surface, everything looked kosher. Easy enough to verify.
She slipped the card into her purse. This one might come in handy.
Steve Rau said, “Anyway … like I said, I’m really not good at this.”
“Practice, practice, practice,” said Liana, giving him another arm pat. “How long has Riptide been around?”