Dangerous (41 page)

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Today had proved too cool for swimming, but it was perfect for a stroll, and Val gave no complaint. It was a joy to simply walk along State Street as the sun climbed the sky. The immaculate white stucco of the Spanish-style store fronts cast a glow over the street, filling blue shadows with a warm bounce light.

We didn’t spend any money, and it was nice to simply window shop and people-watch. The demographic here was a mix of upper middle class and college students, a few surfers, and the occasional street performer or homeless person (to whom I unfailingly gave coin).

It was nice to get away from the din and grime of the big city. I could almost imagine this was some quaint town on the southern coast of France.

We gradually made our way west, toward the wharf, speaking of nothing in particular. I noticed Val was staying unusually close, in a way I found touching, but a little troubling as well.

At noon we backtracked a few blocks to have lunch at an Italian restaurant that had caught Val’s eye; a popular place, judging by the line outside. The interior was lovely, noteworthy for its warm, subdued lighting and blue neon accents around the bar. A reproduction of the Sistine Chapel was painted across the high ceiling.

The waiter brought our menus, and ran through the day’s specials. We ordered a bottle of Chianti.

Val raised her menu when he had gone, but I stopped her.

“Wait, wait, I’ve got this,” I said. “Let me guess what you’d order.” In a minute I had it. “The special, with a quarter order of Capellini Grilled Chicken and Brie. Caesar salad on the side. Right?”

“A fair choice.”

I felt a throb of satisfaction when she set down her unopened menu. As a doll I’d often selected Val’s meals, but that had been under the threat of punishment. This version of the game was a totally different experience for us both.

The waiter brought our wine and a basket of foccacia, then swirled oil and vinegar together in two small dishes before taking our order. Val stuck with my recommendation. I chose the Fettuccine al Pesto.

“What’s your plan for the day?” Val asked, as she tore off a small chunk of bread and dipped it in the the oil and vinegar.

“I have no idea. Chill I guess. Explore. I thought it would do us good to get out of the city.”

Twenty minutes later, I was glad when Val pronounced her food satisfactory. The wine and the fine meal had softened her mood, but she still seemed a little lost after so many dislocations.

Later still, we paid for our meal and stepped out into the warm afternoon air, warm enough that we decided to take the bright red trolley the rest of the way to Stearns Wharf.

There, on the beach side of Cabrillo Boulevard, we stopped to admire a lovely bronze fountain of three leaping dolphins. I struck up a conversation with a charming older couple from the UK, and persuaded the woman to take a picture of Val and me, after I showed her how to do it on my phone. Val slipped her arm about my waist and pulled me close, but only until the click. Before I could decide how I felt about her surreptitious gesture, I was busy returning the favor of a picture for the other couple.

It was nearly two o’clock. The cloud layer had finally burned away and left the sun to beat down on us with full force. By the time we reached the end of the wharf we were beginning to perspire. I’d stupidly forgotten to pack sunscreen, so I had to duck into one of the gift shops to buy a tube. Standing by the railing on the East Beach side, I squirted globs of the coconut scented lotion into my palm, applying them to Val’s arms, shoulders, neck, and finally her face. She’d probably have a slight burn as it was, from our time in the sun.

This was the first time I’d touched her face since slapping her, the night I ended my career as her doll. Her eyes shone at the touch. The scratch on her left cheek was almost healed now, only a faint line beneath my slick fingers.

And she kept that look, as she put lotion on me in turn. And when her finger lingered to trace the outline of the koi tattoo, it proved too much for me. I pulled away from her touch, but only after waiting long enough that she didn’t read the move as a rejection.

What was happening? She was so lost, so vulnerable. I yearned to hold her, yet I feared what might result. I knew her too well.

But it was so nice to be with her, without rules. Or perhaps that was just another rule. Our whole relationship had been based on breaking old rules, making new ones…I shrugged off the deepening thoughts, choosing rather to stay in the moment, so as to give Val…what? Deliverance maybe, a taste of unfiltered light, a little joy. Which is what I’d always wanted for her.

The sun began its slide into the west, making the waves glitter. Raucous gulls wheeled and swooped onto the railings and deck timbers to fight over dropped food. A tow-headed boy of about four ran crying from a tawny pelican as it chased him, demanding a bite of his churro. I found it both funny and heart-wrenching at the same time, and was relieved when his mother shooed the bird away.

Val laughed in a way I’d never heard before, a glissando of pure delight. With her shining face and wind-tossed hair, she appeared to be made of light. Time froze. This scene, here at the wharf’s end, could have been a postcard, or a frame from some plotless French film.

I became aware of a keening whine coming from my right, out over the water. As I turned to see the source of that sound, a dart-like object roared past, just above the waves. A fighter jet, three hundred feet beyond the end of the wharf, trailing bright white smoke like a Blue Angel. Then it roared up into the sky, fog flickering over its wings until it was fully inverted, thundering away in the direction it had come.

Squinting against the sky’s glare, I saw it was painted a mottled green and tan, with yellow wingtips and a bright red star on each wing. I turned to Val, who watched the mysterious aircraft with an enigmatic smile.

“Is that…Russian?” I shouted above the din, remembering the red stars.

“Those are Czech markings,” she shouted back. “But it’s just a private jet. No weapons.”

When the receding plane rolled upright I saw she was right, the wings were empty of bombs or missiles. A few people began to cheer, thinking it must be an air show.

About a mile out, the plane made a descending half-loop. I feared it would strike the water, until the pilot leveled out and came straight at us. With the noisy end facing away, all I heard of the plane was the same high-pitched whine that had warned me of its first approach.

Now people really began to freak, making sounds of panic as it bore down upon us, skimming the waves on an apparent kamikaze run. Several women screamed and ran toward the shore, dragging their children behind. I heard a man call 911 to report a terrorist attack.

“Christ, is that legal? Can he
do
that?” I asked Val anxiously. I’d never seen anything like it.

“No, he can’t. Isn’t it marvelous?”

And I saw that it really
was
aimed at the pier, a mickey-mouse silhouette of fuselage and twin air intakes. The water behind the plane was sandpaper-rough, churned by the roar of its exhaust. Just when my stomach clenched for impact, the plane leaped again into the bright blue sky, thin arcs of vapor curling from each wingtip. The thunder of its engine made my whole body shake. A hundred startled gulls exploded in flight, adding to the chaos.

The plane climbed and sped off toward Los Angeles. Soon all was quiet again, with loops of blue-white smoke drifting out to sea as the gulls calmed down and returned to the wharf.

Everyone was rattled, though a trio of college boys continued to whoop in exultation. Two grave-faced security guards stood with feet spread wide, speaking into shoulder mics.

“You don’t see
that
every day,” I said to Val, a little breathlessly.

“And probably never again, after they take his license. But for that moment he was more alive than all of us combined.” She had a dreamy expression.

“Anarchist,” I accused, jokingly.

She seemed to find that accusation offensive, but made no comment. I spent the next half hour being sweet, in the hope of undoing that blunder.

By the time we walked back to the beach, two local news trucks had arrived. Their ken-doll reporters were thrusting microphones at anyone who might have seen the rogue pilot’s antics. When one of them spotted us and moved purposefully in our direction, Val gave him a wide berth and strode briskly across Cabrillo Boulevard, back along State Street. I had to trot to keep up.

“How do you know so much about that plane?” I asked, a little out of breath, but got no answer. I followed her past a bike rental place with a huge velocipede in front. “Hey!”

Val stopped in front of the next building, a small coffee shop that also offered smoothies, sandwiches, and wi-fi. “I’m thirsty. How about you?”

She was being evasive. But I was thirsty after so long in the sun, and nodded.

She ordered a cappuccino. I got an orange-pineapple-strawberry smoothie despite the face Val made. We found an inside table and sipped our drinks, watching people shuffle past the open storefront. Presently Val excused herself to visit the ladies’ room.

A tall, thirtyish man in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts walked into the shop and took off his sunglasses, letting them hang by a loop around his neck. I heard him order a latte.

Armed with his coffee, the man sat at the next table and fiddle with his Blackberry. He was handsome, if a tad brooding, with curly shoulder-length hair parted in the middle, the way Howard Stern used to wear it. The beginnings of a sunburn created a faint sunglasses-shaped mask around his eyes.

He looked up suddenly, and caught me staring.

“I remember you,” he said, sitting straighter as he looked up from the phone. A smile replaced his serious expression. “You were just at the wharf. You saw the plane, too.” He sounded Northwestern, maybe Canadian.

“Yeah. Pretty crazy, huh?”

He grinned, just as Val had, at the memory. “Oh yeah. That guy was out of his mind. Where’s your friend? I thought I saw…” His eyes went to Val’s cappuccino, across the table from me.

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “The little girls’ room.”

“Gotcha.” He took a sip and put down his phone. “What’s sad is the way everyone panicked. People freak at anything that doesn’t fit in their safe little world.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” I admitted, tucking hair behind my ear and wondering what he thought of my own reaction; I had been a little anxious myself. “At least I didn’t scream.”

He laughed. “No, you were fine. How often do you look straight down the nose of an L-39 at full power?”

“Does
everyone
know more about planes than me?” I said, exasperated.

“No, I’m just a pilot. Say, do you live here?” he asked.

I shook my head. “We just drove up from LA for the day. We’re—”

I felt a grip on my shoulder. “We’re just
leaving
, unfortunately,” Val broke in, sweet but firm. She didn’t bother to sit again, or even introduce herself, but grabbed her coffee and used her other hand to lift my arm, urging me to stand.

Irritated, I did so. She let go and strode out of the coffee shop, leaving me to give the man an embarrassed shrug. “Bye, nice meeting you.”

He didn’t think much of Val’s brusque manner, but bid me a pleasant adieu anyway. Then I hustled to catch her as she strode up the sidewalk with purpose.

“That was really rude,” I snapped, when I’d caught up and grabbed her wrist.

She whirled about, but then her glare softened and she lowered her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Koishi.”