Read A World the Color of Salt Online
Authors: Noreen Ayres
A World the Color of Salt (43 page)
“It's their own damn fault, is that what you mean? Well, Phillip, what do you think of me? Would you say this âcopette' is a number-one fool? 'Cause if you do, all the fast freddie ain't out of your system.”
“No, ma'am,” he said. “I think you're a person trying to do good and came close but no cigar.”
I am not the only one on leave. Billy Katchaturian is. His is for infraction of taste, and possibly more, though the bosses
are trying to keep it hush-hush. It wasn't Joe who told me, but Trudy Kunitz. She said, “You hear what Billy Katch did?” She was sitting on my desk and swung one denim shrouded leg to and fro, the heel of her sneaker rattling the steel case of my desk, and I wondered if she and Billy ever got together, these two; and decided no, they did not. She said, “With some photos. He's hung out to dry, I think.”
I smiled and said, “What were they? Pornographic? All the girls he made it with the last five years, or what?” At the time, I had not even mentally included myself in that number, having put Billy's pillows and white fluffy cat out of mind, though the memory rushed in soon enough.
“He had a show, down at Laguna Beach?”
“Yes?”
“His pictures, all in black and white,” she said, spreading both hands before her. She leaned closer. Two tarnished silver arrows fell forward from her hair, swinging from her earlobes. “Splatter,” she said. “Every one. Can you believe it? He calls it âLifelines.' Is that a crock?”
I'm passing now through Mission Viejo. I'm thinking of what Phillip said to meâabout being a person who's trying to do goodâand the words comfort me but I wish it wasn't he who said it, Phillip with his piss-poor yellow snake and punctured peacock. Brake lights are coming on. The flow always thickens before Crown Valley, but I know it will open up again between here and Avery.
Roland and Patricia have disappeared. Roland, of course, is on the run for the Dwyer murder, my dimpled and measled friend in tow. I told the Las Vegas police and the Orange County sheriff what Phillip told me, as I'm sure he knew I would, but Phillip is not repeating any of it, just as he said, and the detectives visit him every Friday.
Who pulls the strings? I ask myself. And I asked Joe, each time I saw him before I called a halt for a while: Joe-baby, do you think it's getting any better? Meaning the state of things: the load at the lab; the gang shootings we now just call “Santa Anas”; his knee that hurts every January; the big and the little wars. And he has said he doesn't think so. He's told me that
he loves me. I have not told him back. I do, but I can't bring myself to say it yet.
On the right side of my vehicle, I hear a high, squeaking sound. Oh, great, I think. There's something wrong with my car. I push the button to roll down the passenger window to hear it better. A symphony of high-pitched yipping wafts in. I look and look again, thinking there are birds, maybe, on the wires. But no. In the gully that runs along the freeway are tall willows, the tops still at a level ten feet below. It is there the sound is coming from. I finally recognize it: A chorus of coyotes.
The humans on the freeway above have slowed for this chilling song. At Back Bay, of course, there are coyotes. They prevent the meso-predator release of racoons and weasels, which in turn would eat the eggs of the endangered least tern, a beautiful white bird with a black crown and an expressive eyeline, who makes its vulnerable nest in the sand. I've seen coyotes all the years I've lived in California, loping along residential streets early mornings and evenings, tails tucked well down between their legs, no more fear in their eyes than a wary gang member on his way to a wedding party.
This valley of cries beside the freeway says to me that life goes on, in all its variety, in all its single-mindedness. Stay alive, it says. Stay alive.
For invaluable help with the details of criminalistics, my deep appreciation goes to Larry Ragle, retired director of the Orange County Sheriff-Coroner's Forensic Science Services Center and instructor of criminalistics at the University of California at Irvine; and to the staff of the center.
For information relating to law-enforcement protocol and investigative techniques, my sincere thanks to Long Beach police officers Larry N. Chowen and Robert Mahakian; Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff Scott Anger; California Highway Patrol Officer Gary Alfonso; writer and private investigator Bruce Haskett; writer and former Foster City police officer Tom Arnold; and to Travis J. More and Wayne Apfeld.
For information concerning the creatures and plants of nature, recognition goes to the Friends of Newport Bay; the Environmental Nature Center of Newport Beach; and Rick Weiss of
Science News.
For additional technical information, I am indebted to my friends Theodore Waltuch, M.D., and Dawn Waltuch, R.N. Thanks also to Ellen Sullivan, and to Ed Keyes of Ed's Sporting Goods, and Nancy Kawamura, of Orange County Harvest.
To my friends in Orange County Fictionaires, thanks greater than words.
My sincere appreciation to the staff and conferees of the 1990 Squaw Valley Writers' Conference for the opportunity of exposure and for sage advice.
Special thanks go to Michael Silverblatt, host of National Public Radio's
Bookworm
on KCRW in Santa Monica, for his enthusiastic confirmation and singular wisdoms.
Without the unswerving support of my family, this effort simply could not have gone forward. To Tom Glagola, Kathryn Ayres, Gerald and Florence Pahlka, and John and Ann Glagola, my deep appreciation for support that involved spirit, love, and personal sacrifice.
For his energy, optimism, talent, and grace, profound thanks to Michael V. Carlisle of the William Morris Agency.
And finally, I am indebted to my editor, Doug Stumpf, for his early faith in me. Without him, I'd still be inserting/deleting/struggling/scrapping and most of all, whining. Deepest thanks to a correctly aggressive, patient, and intelligent man. Thanks also to Erik Palma, Doug's assistant, and to keen-eyed Randee Marullo for her diligent copyediting.
âN
OREEN
A
YRES
NOREEN AYRES
is an award-winning poet and short story writer. She has also been a technical writer and freelance editor for many years. She lives in Southern California with her husband. This is her first mystery novel.
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“AYRES TELLS A CRISP STORY; SHE KNOWS HER TURF”
Los Angeles Times Book Review
“WONDERFUL . . . A HEARTFELT AND VERY ORIGINAL DEBUT BY A TRULY TALENTED NEW WRITER . . .
She's sometimes funny, sometimes spooky, and always perfectly fluent in the language of dread.”
T. Jefferson Parker, author of
L
AGUNA
H
EAT
“IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO PUT THE BOOK DOWN . . . If you like a no-nonsense, well-written novel, grab this one, it's first rate.”
K
noxville News-Sentinel
“TRULY ORIGINAL . . .
A WORLD THE COLOR OF SALT
marks the long overdue arrival of a major new talent on the mystery scene.”
Donald A. Stanwood, author of
T
HE
M
EMORY OF
E
VA
R
YKER
“SMOKEY IS A DELIGHT”
The West Coast Review of Books
Grateful acknowledgment is made for the use of the following songs:
“If I Fell”: Words and Music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Copyright © 1964 by Northern Songs. All rights controlled and administered by MCA Music Publishing, a division of MCA Inc., New York, NY, 10019.
“Hey Bobby”: Written by K.T. Oslin. Copyright © 1988 by Wooden Wonder Music. Administered by PolyGram International Tunes, Inc.
“I Can Help”: Written by Billy Swan. Copyright © 1974 by TEMI Combine Inc. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission.
AVON BOOKS
A division of
The Hearst Corporation
1350 Avenue of the Americas
New York, New York 10019
Published by arrangement with the author
ISBN 0-380-71571-6
EPub Edition November 2014 ISBN 9780062376909
A WORLD THE COLOR OF SALT
. Copyright © 1992 by Noreen Ayres. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
First Avon Books Printing: November 1993
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