South of Bixby Bridge Read online

  The headman got down on his knee. He took my trembling hand in his soft, wrinkled palm. He asked me to repeat a prayer after him and I did. But I was so focused on getting the words right, I forgot the prayer as soon as it passed my lips. But something happened. For the first time, fear completely left me. The world was full of magic and beauty and the bonfire smoke carried mystery on the air. I floated back to my seat and when I passed by Red, he smiled wider than ever.

  Mom picked me up the next morning. I sat in the front seat of the station wagon and talked her ear off the whole way home. She nodded and smiled, but she didn’t say much. When we got home, she sat me down at the kitchen table and explained what a mastectomy is and why she was missing a breast.

  I lay in bed that night and tried to remember the bonfire prayer but it was lost with the smoke. I tried to find the fearless feeling but it was gone too. I wouldn’t feel it again until college when that 40 of Old English hit my guts.

  ~~~

  I open my eyes. Parked next to the bed is a bamboo tray stacked with bowls of fruit, baskets of breads, and a silver pot of coffee. Behind the coffeepot is a bottle of Roederer Cristal Rose in a copper bucket of ice. I reach for the Champagne. The Rolex surprises me on my wrist. The baguette diamond bezel is blinding beautiful in the morning light. I pull the Champagne from the bucket, ice water drips from the bottle onto a page of thick spa stationery. There on the tray, written by a flowing female hand in back-slanting light-footed cursive that dances across the paper, is a note—

  Thanks for a great night! Stay as long as you’d like, but be at our place tomorrow night—We’re having us a little party!

  25 Sorry, Ma’am—I’m Empty

  The Valombrosa gates are wide open like hungry black jaws. The drive is lined with candles glowing in little red-paper bags. The front of the mansion looks like a Beverly Hills showroom packed with every expensive make of vehicle. Two young women, who must be parking valets, stand on the steps wearing red vests and black button hats. I’ve been parked at the entrance with my lights off for 10 minutes.

  I couldn’t sleep last night so I called the Doc. The coke he brought blew my mind and I forgot about the Champagne Suite. But I’m thinking about it now. I felt rebellious and an exciting kind of guilty when I first woke up in that room. I remember Tara kissing me. I remember her lying naked on the bed. I remember spreading her long legs and tasting her. And the memories should be sweet, but my conscience keeps going off in the background like Paul’s flashbulbs lighting everything up for what it was—me being used. I feel stupid. I feel dirty. I feel embarrassed. I wasn’t going to come tonight but I dressed and then drove here on autopilot.

  I’m leaving. I start the Porsche and reverse back into the street. I look at the Rolex on my wrist—can’t leave. I remember Paul’s camera—leaving. I think about the yacht—can’t leave. I shift into first and drive up to the house.

  The fountain is no longer dry. The wine God’s jug pours red-dyed water into the naked women’s upturned mouths. I park behind a black Bentley. When I climb out of my car, the tallest female valet bounces over. She says,

  Hey, the service entrance is around back.

  I was invited, I say.

  She holds her hand out for my keys but I tuck them in my pocket and walk past her up the stairs.

  Inside the foyer, candelabras cast a romantic glow on the polished wood and marble surfaces. Through the arch leading to the great room, I see guests in eveningwear mingling around a string band. The men wear white tuxedos, the women are clad in black, and together they look like a chessboard as servers dance between them refilling wine and delivering hors d’oeuvres. I’m not sure where I belong so I stay in the foyer.

  Tara glides by with Mrs. Hamner, the State Assemblywoman. She spots me and stops. Tara’s black dress clings to her body. She touches my cheek. She says,

  Oh, Trevor—they’d open the studbook for you. I’m so glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet—

  Yes, we’ve met, Mrs. Hamner says grabbing my hand and petting it. In Benny Wilson’s office, do you remember, Trevor?

  How could I forget, Mrs. Hamner? Did you get your Christmas wish? I didn’t read anything in the paper about the speaker choking on a turkey bone.

  Mrs. Hamner squeezes my hand. You better be careful with this one, Tara, she says, he doesn’t forget a thing.

  Tara laughs. Trevor, Paul’s in his study with the guys telling lies. Would you be a dear and tell him I’m making the announcement?

  Then she whisks Mrs. Hamner away.

  Paul’s study is filled with more men wearing white tuxedos. They stand in clusters chatting with practiced boredom. Paul wears a white jacket with tails. He’s opening a bottle and talking over his shoulder to the men nearest him. He says,

  This is the best cognac made. It’s aged in oak barrels under lock and key for 20 years. I first tasted it in Paris. Bought a controlling stake in the company so I’d never run out.

  Paul turns around with two glasses of cognac. He sees me and smiles. He steps toward me, hands me a glass. He says,

  Gentlemen, say hello to my new man—Trevor!

  One of the guests, a fat man with a thick gray beard, looks me over and then he says,

  He must have come straight from the office in that suit.

  The room falls silent. A dozen pairs of eyes stare at me. Paul looks at me with a sly smile. I want to tell the beard it’s an Armani suit, but I smile and take a sip of my brandy. After a heavy silence, one of the other guests says,

  Where are those cigars, Paul?

  And then another chimes in and says,

  Did you buy a Dominican tobacco plantation too?

  The men laugh. They forget about me and turn back to chatting. I feel better. Just as Paul opens the lid to his humidor, Tara pokes her head into the study. She says,

  Those stinky cigars will have to wait, Paul—it’s time to tally.

  Paul closes the humidor. He leads the men into the great room where the guests gather around Tara. She stands in front of the string band holding a sheet of paper. When everyone is circled up, the string bass player plucks a few deep chords and calls for everyone to be quiet. Then Tara whistles. She says,

  Okay, wild people, settle down—Bacchus will be back!

  The murmuring turns to whispers and then the whispers turn to silence. I stand at the back of the crowd and watch. Tara says,

  Years ago, I realized how hard it is to buy Christmas presents for my friends. What do you get people who already have too much of everything? Then the answer came to me. You get them that good feeling that comes from helping the less fortunate. You get them a little bit of their innocence back.

  Someone in the crowd laughs. Someone else says, Good luck with that. Then everyone laughs. The bass player plucks a chord. Tara smiles. She says,

  Well, we can try anyway. Now, for those of you who are new friends, here’s how this works—every Christmas we send our favorite people an invite to this party—our black and white party. The invite has a space for you to write your favorite charitable cause. We collect the invites at the door and tally them up. Then we make a donation in your name to the charity of your choice. This year, we raised the donation to $25,000 per couple and $10,000 for singles—more for couples because we all know that a good couple is more than the sum of two people.

  Someone says, Especially in divorce court!

  Everyone laughs again, including Tara. Then she says,

  Now for the tally—36 couples and seven singles showed up this year and Paul and I will make the donations in your names next week for a total of . . . wait for it . . . drumroll please . . .

  The bassist slaps a percussive rhythm on his strings. Tara holds up the paper and waves it. She says,

  A grand total of $975,000!

  All the guests applaud. Tara bows deep, and then she swings back up, throws her arms in the air, and says,

  Merry Christmas everyone! Your gift is a clean conscience for one night. Now let’s
use it up by getting good and drunk!

  Tara whispers something to the bass player and he nods. Then she walks to me, takes my hand, and pulls me into the center of the room. The band plays “Unforgettable.” Tara takes my hands, wraps my arms around her waist, and then she drapes her arms over my shoulders and leans into me. We slow dance. A few other couples join in but most drift to the sidelines and watch, their eyes raking over us, their mouths whispering, their wineglasses tipping to servers for more wine.

  Tara feels like hot sex. She slithers in my arms. My hips slide against hers. I bury my nose in her hair, inhale her fresh scent. I need to taste her, need to be inside of her, need to mold my flesh together with hers. I whisper in her ear. I say,

  I need to see you.

  Tara brushes her hand against my hard-on. She says,

  Hungry tonight?

  The music stops. I notice Paul standing next to us. He presses a thick envelope of cash into my hand. Then Tara passes me off to a tall brunette wanting to dance. The brunette smiles. Tara winks and wraps her arms around Paul. I tuck the envelope in my suit pocket. I guess I’m my own charity.

  I CAN HEAR the party winding down in the house behind me. I’m sitting on a concrete bench at the edge of the blue glowing pool. When I swiped the Champagne bottle from a passing server, I came out here to cool off. Now I’m cold, my tie loose, my hair hanging in my face, and I feel sick.

  The patio door opens and Tara steps from the house carrying an empty Champagne flute. She floats over and sits next to me on the bench. She holds out her flute and says,

  Fill me up, Mister?

  I tip the bottle and pour the last drops of Champagne into her glass. Sorry, Ma’am—I’m empty.

  Tara dangles the empty flute between her knees. She says,

  You were the star of the party tonight. What did you think of old Mr. Kleinfeld’s daughter, the leggy brunette you danced with three times? She was absolutely begging for a formal introduction.

  I pat the thick envelope of cash in my pocket and say,

  Did you tell her how much I cost?

  Nobody’s forcing anything, Trevor. We’re all adults.

  I’m getting another drink. I stand up, steady my legs.

  Tara grabs my hand. She says,

  I think maybe you’ve had one too many already.

  I look at the empty Champagne bottle in my other hand and laugh. Who are we kidding? I say. One is too many.

  The tallest female valet jogs over. She says,

  There you are, geez, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Your car’s blocking a Bentley—I need your keys.

  I look from the valet to Tara. I say,

  I was just leaving anyway.

  The valet follows me out. The impatient Bentley owner stands tapping his foot while his attractive young escort applies lipstick. I recognize him as the bearded guy who insulted my suit in Paul’s study. I thrust the empty Champagne bottle at him. Confused, he takes it. No wonder you’re impatient, I say, you must be paying your date by the hour.

  A shocked hole opens in his gray beard but no sound comes out. The tallest valet tries to contain her giggle behind me.

  I jump in my car and start it. I push the shifter up and to the left for reverse but I must have missed and hit first because when I pop the clutch, the Porsche jumps forward and smashes into the Bentley.

  As I back out, I can hear the beard yelling. He says,

  Did you see that? That punk just hit my Bentley!

  Looking back one last time, I swear I see the valets smiling.

  26 Measure of the Man

  I’m not sure if it’s still night, morning, or two days later but somebody is pounding on the door.

  Pulling the shade aside, I peek out the stateroom porthole and blink into the daylight to see who it is. Reflected in the windows of the yacht in the next berth, I see a dark-skinned man wearing a double-breasted suit standing at the Valombrosa II door. He checks his thin reflection in the glass, straightens his tie, and knocks.

  He’s raising his fist to knock again when I swing the door open. Hello there, he says. Mr. Lussier at your service. We’re here to get the measure of the man. The guy talks weird so I close the door. He knocks again harder. Persistent. I throw open the door. He’s holding a black business card in my face. I snatch the card away and read the silver lettering—LUSSIER & SONS BESPOKE TAILORS, SINCE 1975.

  Three and a half minutes later, I’m standing in my boxer shorts while Mr. Lussier measures me. He makes notations with a tooth-dented pencil he holds in his mouth. The Armani suit I slept in is piled on the floor and I can see the $10,000 envelope from Paul and Tara sticking out from its inside breast pocket.

  Mr. Lussier looks up at me. He says,

  Did we know our left leg is a half-inch longer than our right?

  No, I didn’t—I just hope it’s not hollow.

  Perhaps a chiropractor could straighten us out.

  He turns to his bag and hands me tuxedo pants. I pull them on. What’s all this for anyway? I say.

  He grins at me and clucks his cheek. He says,

  Mr. Valombrosa rushes his bespoke tailor, risking my reputation with a lousy made-to-measure tuxedo, and we don’t even know what it’s for? Well, all I know is we are to have it by New Year’s Eve.

  Then he holds out his hand and says,

  Can we take off the Rolex?

  I unclasp the Rolex and lay it in Mr. Lussier’s outstretched palm. He inspects it before slipping it into his pocket. He hands me a shirt. I pull it on. As I button it, he says,

  We’re going to be the fanciest drake at the ball!

  I wish I felt like it.

  Ha! he says. If tailors could fix that, the world would be much better dressed, and there would be no psychiatrists.

  I cluck my cheek, imitating him. I say,

  Perhaps a psychiatrist could straighten us out!

  Mr. Lussier smiles and slips a jacket on me. He marks the cuffs with chalk. Then he turns me toward the mirror and fusses with the lapel. He says,

  When one is living the dream—waking at noon on a yacht, telling time on an $80,000 chronometer!—one could do worse, much worse. When one is young, one has to live. Plenty of time for dying later. This old tailor has made many suits for men who were dead but years yet from their grave. Trust us.

  I don’t trust anyone, I say.

  Mr. Lussier hands me back the Rolex. He says,

  We should trust people to be exactly what they have proven themselves to be, no more and no less.

  Then he kneels to adjust the hem on the tuxedo pants. I clasp the watch around my wrist. Amazing, $80,000, he says. I look down at my suit on the floor, the envelope of cash sticking out from the pocket. Flaunting the Rolex in the mirror, I smile at myself and say,

  I guess I am living the dream.

  Mr. Lussier pokes my ankle with a straight pin.

  27 Money’s No Problem

  It’s funny how different the salesclerks treat me once they see the Rolex on my wrist. It’s even funnier to watch their eyes light up when I pull out a wad of 100s and pay with cash.

  At Nordstrom, I buy a new sport coat and designer dark-blue jeans. The girl behind the register says the jeans were designed for an NBA star. That reminds me of Mr. Charles. He uses the Edward & Bliss office fund to buy season tickets to the Sacramento Kings. Great seats too, three rows up from courtside. The tickets are meant for clients but Mr. Charles goes to every game himself. Sometimes he brings a top producer with him. He brought me once. The whole game, all he did was prattle about how expensive the seats were as if he’d paid for them. Mr. Charles would shit if he saw me now, if he knew how well I’m doing.

  As the clerk rings my purchase, I ask her if she can recommend a sexy dress. She blushes and says,

  For what type of occasion?

  An evening of revenge, I say.

  She giggles and says she knows just what I need. Then she takes me upstairs to the women’s designer collections.

  AFT
ER LEAVING Westfield Center with my shopping bags, I stop by a Walgreens on Market. I buy a prepaid Visa card and have the clerk load $2,000 on it. She has to call a manager over from the photo center to handle the cash and the manager probably earns 10 bucks an hour but he treats me like a drug dealer.

  I walk back to the Valombrosa building where I parked. All the Valombrosa floors are dark except for the 31st floor. No one is working between Christmas and New Year’s except that little CFO, Mr. Chapel. I’ll bet he doesn’t even celebrate his own birthday, let alone Christmas.

  I ride the elevator up to my office. On my computer, I log on to StubHub. I use the prepaid Visa and buy a pair of courtside tickets for tomorrow’s Kings game. Sacramento vs. Oakland, I know Mr. Charles will be at that game. I get seats on the floor, three rows in front of him. A $900 ticket is a lot, but it’ll be worth it to see the look on his face. Maybe I’ll wear my Rolex on my right wrist so he can see it when I walk three rows back to shake his hand.

  SATURDAY WHEN I dial Kari, she’s pissed at me for kicking her off the yacht Christmas Day. She says she’s working, she says she doesn’t want to see me, she says I’ll have to call the escort service. I tell her I have courtside Kings tickets and a towncar and she says she can be ready in an hour.

  I have the towncar take me to Kari’s place on Potrero Hill. She answers the door, I hold up the Nordstrom dress bag. She hooks a hand on her hip. What? she says. I’m not dressed pretty enough?

  I unzip the bag and show her the Cavalli dress. She gasps and then she kisses me. Stripping right there in her tiny apartment living room without even asking me to close the door, she slips into the new dress. The silk fabric hugs her heart-shaped ass and scoops her tits up like balloons holding water, her nipples poking against the fabric. She’s not as pretty as Tara is but she’s so different I don’t mind. I grab her in my arms and pull her against me. I say,

  You look good enough to eat.