Golden Orange (18 page)

When she drove across Pacific Coast Highway onto Balboa peninsula, Winnie was dozing.

“Home again, big boy,” she said and his head bobbed.

“Yeah, so I am.”

“Santa Ana winds're blowing,” she said. “It's hot!”

“Not like the desert,” he said.

He was wrong. High pressure in Nevada, Utah and Arizona, and low pressure offshore allowed air to flow from land to sea. Compression on the mountain slopes was funneled through the canyons and made the air strike Los Angeles and Orange counties like an open-hearth furnace. During the first week of April, heat records were broken and it stayed hot for days. It was 99 degrees Fahrenheit when Tess turned into the alley behind Winnie's apartment and parked. He got his bag from the trunk and walked around to the driver's side.

“Santa Anas,” he said. “Feels like God's blow dryer's hitting me in the mouth.”

In a way, she looked as unapproachable as she had the first time he saw her at Spoon's Landing. He thought he should thank her and shake hands. But then he fancied he could smell jasmine, could still taste her tongue burning with jalapeño. He remembered that hammock beneath him and could almost hear her squealing with excitement. He stood gazing at her with a forlorn expression.

“What is this?” she said, finally. “An H.F.H. good-bye?”

“What?”

“Ho-fucking-hum. Is that all I'm going to get out of you, old son?”

Tess Binder opened the door of the Mercedes, stepped out onto the alley and grabbed a handful of Winnie's hair, pulling his head down. The good-bye kiss broke the record of the one he'd gotten at the hacienda.

When she finally pulled back she said, “I'll call you. I've got some thinking to do. Okay?”

“I'll be around,” Winnie said. “You won't have no trouble finding me. If you're looking.”

“I'll be looking, old son,” Tess Binder said, jumping back in the car.

When Winnie arrived at Spoon's Landing at four o'clock that afternoon, he was greeted by a newspaper headline, from the joke newspapers they do for tourists. Spoon had taped it over the mirror behind the bar. The headline said:
NEW SKIPPER HIRED TO PILOT THE EXXON
VALDEZ
.

Below the headline there was a photo of the ill-fated oil tanker's drunken skipper, Joseph Hazlewood, and another of Winnie Farlowe leaving jail after the Christmas debacle.

The column led with: “Crew will never know the difference.”

“This came a little late for April Fools' Day,” Spoon explained. “Where the hell you been? I almost called the beach patrol. Had 'em check sand bumps for feet.”

“I was with a lady,” Winnie said.

“Yeah,” Spoon said doubtfully. “Computer dating service really works, huh? So what'll you have? Your see-through drink? Polish vodka?”

Winnie missed Tess Binder already, and he realized that he might get blind drunk if he wasn't careful. Spoon's droning voice was depressing.

“A beer,” Winnie said, finally. “Better make it a beer.”

The first didn't make him feel any better. Neither did the second. Then he ordered a Polish vodka.

Cops arrived at 4:15, five of them: Novak the narc, two new ones Winnie didn't know, Hadley, the big cop who worked beach patrol with Buster, and Buster Wiles himself.

Buster introduced Winnie to the two new cops, and Winnie was bagged enough to buy everyone a round of beers even though he was down to his last twenty bucks. Buster and Winnie shared a table away from the other cops, who began shooting a raucous game of snooker.

One of the young cops yelled to the dour saloonkeeper, “Come on, Spoon, get in the game! I hear you're a snooker-shootin party animal!”

“Sure. Spoon's a party animal like Howard Hughes was a party animal,” Buster said disgustedly. “Like Rudolph Hess was a party animal.” Then he turned to Winnie and said, “Young coppers these days? Idea a fun is drivin a pickup over chuck holes. Or belly-bumpin people off barstools. I don't know where they get 'em. Gimme a fuckin headache, is what they do.”

“Still on the beach patrol?”

“Long as I can keep the job.” Buster nodded.

“Still contemplating a career change?”

“Sooner'n you think,” Buster said.

“Still can't talk about it?”

“Soon.”

“I admit, you got me curious,” Winnie said.

“That's jist like you. You're the most curious guy I ever worked with. Gotta know how
everything
works. I said you'd be the first to know, and if it don't work out, I'll be here till I retire. Or till I run into another psycho with an Uzi that shoots straighter.”

The young cops playing snooker were getting noisier. Hadley had guzzled four ounces of bourbon with the glass in his teeth and his hands behind his back. When he finished he wiped his chin and marched triumphantly around the snooker table, slapping palms with the others.

“You fuckin kids decide to break out a cornet or slide trombone, I'll cite you for no parade permit!” Buster Wiles barked. Then to Winnie: “Wanna go divin tomorrow? I heard they took some real big abalone by Dana Point. Been thinkin about takin a drive down. I can borrow an extra tank and wet suit.”

“I haven't dived since … come to think of it, since you and me went to Catalina on Woody's Bertram twenty-eight. He still got the same boat?”

“Yeah, but he don't go out much no more.”

“Guess you can still borrow it?”

“Anytime,” Buster said. “We could go out for a couple days fishin if you want.”

“Thanks, Buster, but diving doesn't interest me much anymore. Getting too old. Cold water makes my back ache sometimes.”

“You think
you're
gettin old? Man, I'm forty-five almost! I even catch myself watchin the Phil Donahue show sometimes. Sittin there lookin at all those guests that jist missed the electric chair but got Phil convinced the naughtiest thing they ever did was paint happy faces on the hobbyhorse in nursery school. Far as I'm concerned, purgatory'd be an eternity of watchin the Phil Donahue show. Hell'd be watchin him interview movie stars.”

“Lemme get my schedule together,” Winnie said. “We'll do some fishing soon. I been out looking for a job, you know.”

“You ever thought about bein a P.I.? You could give whatzisname a call. Kilroy? You know, the P.I. up in Santa Ana? He runs a pretty respectable business.”

“Me, a P.I.?”

“Ain't exactly police work, but sometimes you might get a decent case,” Buster said.

“I was thinking about selling boats.”

“You can sail 'em, but I can't see you sellin 'em,” Buster said. “You're too straight. Too much of a straight-ahead guy.”

“That's what
she
calls me!”

“Who?”

“Tess Binder. The woman I introduced you to the other night.”

“Oh, yeah, the
lady.
That her name? Binder?”

“Yeah, she called me a straight-ahead guy too.”

“When they flatter you, watch out.” Buster got up and went to the bar while one of the young cops dropped some coins in the jukebox, looked at the selections and, seeing nothing he even recognized, punched three numbers at random. The first spooked Winnie. It was Frank Sinatra.

It seems we stood and talked like this before

We looked at each other in the same way then

But I can't remember where or when.

Winnie was astonished. He yelled to Spoon, “Hey! How long's that song been on the jukebox?”

“Since about the last time Carlos Tuna bought somebody a drink,” the saloonkeeper answered. “Back when Wayne Newton still sang like a girl.”

“I never noticed before,” Winnie mumbled.

Buster came back with a double vodka for Winnie, and said, “Guy sittin by Guppy at the bar? Tried to get me in a game a liar's poker. He's got a dollar bill with a knife crease in it. I says, ‘Sure, pal, how 'bout we have a little side bet too? I'll bet two-oh that your dollar bill's got about six of a kind on it, probably aces.' Suddenly, he don't wanna play no more.”

Winnie said, “I seen him around. Works a bar like a minesweeper. Stealing tips.”

Then Buster said, “What's the name a that bitch … sorry, that
lady
you were with? Binder?”

“Yeah, Tess Binder.”

“They fished a guy outta the surf over by Little Corona last year. Name was Binder. Let's see, Charles? No. Chester?”

Winnie said, “Conrad? Conrad P. Binder?”

“Yeah, that's it,” Buster said. “Conrad Binder. Suicide. Shot himself down there on the sand one night. Fishermen spotted him the next morning. Crabs had a luau.”

“When was it?”

“Oh, August. Maybe September.”

“I was drinking pretty heavy then,” Winnie said. “Feeling real sorry for myself right after they retired me. Guess I missed it in the papers.”

“Local guy. Stockbroker or something.”

“Mortgage banker.”

“Was that it? Anyways, he smoked himself down there on the sand and the tide moved him around. The Harbor Patrol got called first, but you know how
they
are. Offshore's supposed to be county, but up to the surf line is ours. I bet they got a gaff and pushed the body so there'd be no doubt who handles it. Can't figure why anybody'd wanna be on the Harbor Patrol. P.R. job. Triple A on-the-water, far as I'm concerned.”

“Where'd he shoot himself?”

“Little Corona.”

“I mean, head? Temple? Mouth?”

“Temple, I think. I didn't see the body. The other dicks were talkin about it. You know, one day a guy's a prominent retired banker, next day the crabs're eatin his face. Ends up in a room with rubber wallpaper, wearin a toe tag.”

“Why'd he kill himself? Any note?”

Buster shrugged and said, “I don't really know much about the case. Ask Sammy Vogel. He handled it. I think the guy was sick. Cancer or somethin. Maybe heart.”

“They find the gun?”

Buster thought for a moment and said, “I think they did. Pretty sure. Why?”

“Why? 'Cause if they didn't, how can they be sure it was suicide? Jesus, Buster, you been working dope so long you're zombied out.”

“They
musta
found the piece. There was no talk about a homicide. Guy went down on the beach one night, probably sang a medley a the Beach Boys' greatest hits, and busts a cap in his own skull.”

“You're a real romantic, Buster,” Winnie said, signaling to Spoon for refills.

“How come so much interest in this guy, Binder? You ain't been makin it with that lady in white, have ya?”

Winnie was suddenly stopped cold. There it was again! That maddening sensation of
déja vu
! The song was playing in his mind! Playing at the wrong speed.

We smiled at each other in the same way then

But I can't remember where or when.

“Talk about
me
bein zombied out!” Buster said, finally.

“What?”

“You're zonin. How 'bout comin back to planet earth?”

“It's that goddamn song!” Winnie said, snapping out of it.

“What song?”

“The one jist finished on the jukebox.”

“I didn't notice.”

“I
know
I've seen that woman somewhere before. Maybe
talked
to her. Maybe …”

“What woman?”

“Tess Binder. I've been …
seeing
her in my mind. But … like, I've seen her
before.
Like, like … in a
dream.
”

Spoon was putting the drinks on the table. The saloonkeeper had an unfiltered cigarette dangling from his lip, and his Mister Roberts naval officer's cap was perched on the back of his head. His aloha shirt was unbuttoned and his hairy belly was dripping sweat, on this, the afternoon of one of the most fiery Santa Anas in Southern California history.

“Hey, Spoon, Winnie's gettin spooky!” Buster said. “Rememberin people from another life. Better dial the Shirley MacLaine hotline.”

“Don't remind me a Shirley MacLaine,” the saloonkeeper droned. “The night a couple years ago when her I-lived-other-lives story was on television, the customers wanted to watch it. There she is, old Shirley, dancin around with some young dude she was boffin. He kept sayin he created himself. He was God. She says, ‘I'm God!' He says, ‘No,
I'm
God!' ‘No,' she says, ‘I'm God!' Me, I'm goddamn
bored
! I turned on a ball-game and that's what led to the fight where somebody tossed a bottle and busted out my big screen. Cost me nearly a thousand bucks for repair. Don't mention Shirley MacLaine in
this
joint!”

When Spoon finished droning and shuffled back behind the bar, Buster said, “Anyways, if you're all that interested in the Binder deal check with Vogel. There mighta been somethin questionable about it, but not to my knowledge. What's wrong? Your little friend Tess suspect foul play?”