House of Smoke (18 page)

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t exist,” he explains. “They’re like illegal aliens—they’re here, but they really aren’t. It’s like trying to catch smoke.”

“They exist,” she insists. “They were there.”

“They were there all right,” Herrera agrees with her. “But they aren’t anymore.”

It’s a beautiful day at the beach. Eleven in the morning, the sky is blazing blue without a hint of haze, wisps of cirrus clouds float high above, the temperature is unseasonably mild, there’s a slight breeze coming in off the ocean. In the near distance, so close you feel you can almost touch them, the Channel Islands rise up out of the water, jagged ridges of rock and vegetation, the only land between this coastline and Hawaii, four thousand miles to the west. In the channel, clusters of oil rigs reach their deceptively spindly frames to the sky. They’ve been there so long—going on thirty years now—that nobody much notices them anymore. Closer, to the south, the high-rise buildings of the university tower above the waterline, the windows glittering as they catch and reflect the midday rays.

A familiar dock protrudes out into the water. Frank and Rusty sailed into this dock. Rusty was killed and Frank was arrested. The Sparks family’s dock is no longer the private sanctuary they want it to be.

Several dozen people are here. Some by invitation; the rest, mostly members of various local environmental groups who devote much of their time and energy towards preserving the local oceanic ecology, have crashed the party. No attempt was made to stop them from coming, even though this is private property. The order to let them in came directly from Miranda Sparks.

At the center of this crush Miranda and Dorothy stand with their backs to the sea, facing their guests, chatting with friends. They’re both dressed ranch-style, although Miranda’s jeans have been tailored to flatter her ass.

The principal guest of honor (whom Miranda has situated next to her) is John Wilkerson, a patrician gentleman who bears a pretty good resemblance to the late Eric Sevareid, the famous CBS correspondent. Wilkerson is president of The Friends Of The Sea, which makes him the most important figure in oceanography in the world after Jacques Cousteau. He flew here from his home in New York solely for this presentation, that’s how important it is. Other notables are Dr. George Woolrich, chancellor of UCSB, and Dr. Jan Lovellette, a world-famous oceanographer and marine biologist who is a senior professor at the Scripps Institute in La Jolla.

Among the local environmentalists on hand, standing near the back, is Marty Pachinko. As he looks at Miranda, she turns to him and smiles. Caught by surprise, he smiles back, then averts his gaze.

Miranda waits until everyone is in place, especially the television crews. Satisfied that all is in order, she steps forward to the portable podium, which is adorned with the crest of the University of California.

“On behalf of all the members of the Sparks family, I want to thank you for coming out here today,” Miranda tells her guests, who include over a dozen TV crews, anchorpeople, and news reporters. This is a carefully staged media event.

“We have an announcement to make,” she continues, making eye contact with her guests, each in turn; as her gaze falls upon Wilkerson she smiles seductively.

He returns her smile with an almost imperceptible nod, checking out of the corners of his eyes to make sure it was for him alone. Wilkerson is in his early sixties, an attractive man, a powerhouse, CEO of a large Wall St. brokerage firm as well as a renowned conservationist. Women find him attractive, which he makes good use of;

But this woman: very special. Maybe, if he’s reading the signals correctly, he should plan on staying over; he’ll call his office in New York, rebook his flight to leave tomorrow instead of tonight, as it’s now planned. His secretary can reserve a suite at the San Ysidro Ranch. The suite the Kennedys honeymooned in; he’s found use for it before. First he’ll want to check her intentions out, to make sure it isn’t mere flirting.

“This piece of property has been held in preserve for several years,” Miranda says to her audience, breaking Wilkerson’s reverie. “It’s never been used for any commercial purposes. The Sparks family has always wanted it to be that way, going back decades.”

She looks at Dorothy, who nods as if on cue.

“However,” Miranda continues, “we have recently come to believe that if a proper use of this part of our property could be found that would be beneficial, without violating its integrity, we would be selfish and shortsighted not to grant such a usage.”

She pauses for a moment. She’s been speaking without notes, standing in front of everyone, completely at ease, hands in jeans pockets like a regular person.

“We’re happy to say that we’ve found a good use. We have decided—” here she pauses for a moment, glances at Dorothy, who again smiles and nods, “… to set aside fifty acres of our property to establish a comprehensive school of oceanography under the aegis of the University of California, for research into marine life and for the use and education of the public. This project will be jointly controlled by The Friends Of The Sea, whose president, Mr. John Wilkerson, has graciously consented to be with us today, and by what will be the newly established oceanography school of UCSB, to be headed by Dr. Jan Lovellette, one of the world’s leading authorities on marine life, who will be coming to Santa Barbara to assume the chairmanship of this department. To ensure that Dr. Lovellette would leave her present position at Scripps to come up and take over this new department, we are also pledging five hundred thousand dollars to endow a permanent chair of oceanography.”

Everyone breaks into applause, accompanied by whoops and shouting. TV cameramen rush towards Miranda, trying to get a good closeup.

Miranda looks over at Marty Pachinko. He’s looking at her with a stunned expression on his face, like she had pole-axed him with a two-by-four.

She turns away from him. “John Wilkerson, president of The Friends Of The Sea, would like to say a few words.” She steps aside for Wilkerson.

“On behalf of The Friends Of The Sea,” Wilkerson begins—he has one of those Boston Brahmin accents that comes only after generations of schooling at Choate and Harvard—“we wish to thank you. This is indeed a wonderful donation, one of the largest and most important ever received anywhere in the United States. We are thrilled to be a part of it, along with the university.”

He smiles at Miranda, checking out her ass at the same time, casually but so that there’s no mistaking his look.

Miranda doesn’t miss the look. Men have been checking her out like that since she was twelve.

“The Sparks Foundation is happy to do this,” Miranda says, taking charge again. “It’s the right thing to do, the right time to do it, and, most importantly, the right place. This is the only place,” she informs the gathered group, “that would work for this project.” She turns to the oceanographer. “Dr. Lovellette will say a few words about the project specifics.”

Jan Lovellette, as plain and unadorned as Miranda is beautiful and put-together, and clearly uncomfortable in the limelight, smiles tentatively. “This will be a world-class research and teaching facility,” she says. “Upon its completion we’ll be able to study, observe, and protect all the sea life of this part of the coast, which has certain unique characteristics found nowhere else in the world, and also this will make possible a wonderful educational experience, not only for the people of Santa Barbara County but for everyone.”

“How much will the total cost be?” a reporter calls out from the crowd.

“That’s a good question,” Miranda answers. “We don’t have all the specifics yet, but we estimate the total cost will be about one hundred and fifty million dollars.”

“Where is that money going to come from?” another reporter asks.

“Another good question. Did you bring your checkbook?” Miranda asks with a smile. “Seriously, that is
the
multi-million-dollar question. I can give you an answer, but only in part. The Sparks Foundation, as I have announced, will donate all the land, which is worth several million dollars, as well as endowing the chair—” she pauses—“providing that private groups and citizens raise the money to build the physical facility.”

“Are there groups out there that you know of that will do that?” comes yet another question.

Wilkerson steps forward again. “Our organization will make a contribution, as will many other environmental groups from all over the world. It’s going to be a huge task, but this is too good an opportunity to waste. If we don’t pull this off we’ll never get another chance like it. We have been in close contact with a major corporation that has indicated they might cover the entire cost of the project, but it would be premature at this point to identify them.”

Miranda smiles again for the cameras. “Thank you all for attending. We’ll be keeping you posted as to our progress.”

The party’s over. The newspeople rush to file and air their stories. The attendees cluster in groups, talking excitedly.

Marty Pachinko approaches Miranda.

“Congratulations,” he offers with chagrin.

“Thank you,” Miranda answers with a smile.

“I feel like a jerk, after the way I carried on back at the county. But you blindsided me, when you didn’t have to.”

“Well, Marty, you are a jerk,” she states, still smiling. “You should have known better. The truth is, you blindsided yourself, you didn’t need any help from me. Anyway, I like to tweak you,” she adds teasingly. “It’s so easy.”

He flinches. “You could have said something then,” he replies doggedly.

“I wasn’t sure we could pull this off. I’m still not; we have a lot of money to raise, and I’m sure you and your friends will find something in this to oppose. You always do.”

Wilkerson holds back until the others have moved ahead of Miranda and him.

“Your generosity is extraordinary,” he tells her.

“That’s very nice of you to say that.”

He pauses a moment, diplomatically. “I would like to thank you … a bit more formally,” he says.

“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” she laughs. Quickly, she puts a hand on his forearm, lets it linger a brief moment, then withdraws it. “Being of assistance in an undertaking so important and so compelling is plenty of reward for me—for all of us.” Again, a light touch, this time on the back of his hand.

“Perhaps …” He hesitates. Is he going to look foolish? The hell with it; he has to go with it.

“Yes?”

“I’m staying in town tonight. The San Ysidro Ranch.” Betty Sue, his secretary for over twenty years, will get him in there tonight. She’s done this countless times. “If you’re not busy, perhaps you … you and your husband … could join me in a celebratory dinner.”

She smiles; a thousand-watter. “Unfortunately, my husband is in San Francisco, on other family business. But I’m free, and I’d love to join you.”

He walks her to her car as they make arrangements for the evening. She’ll meet him at his hotel, it’s easier than making him drive to her house.

“Seven o’clock, then,” he says. His heart is beating like a tom-tom, he feels like an adolescent, for chrissake.

“I can hardly wait,” she says as they part.

The Sparks family owns several buildings in the old section of Santa Barbara, where the first adobes were built by the initial wave of Spanish settlers: the Ortegas, the De La Guerras, and others, dating back to 1810. Their two-story building, at 188 East De La Guerra, which houses the family foundation and their business offices, is considered one of the most historically important structures in the county.

Native American blankets, baskets, bows and arrows adorn the walls of the family’s inner offices; an accompanying motif is carried out in the rest of the complex, which is decorated in 19th-century western style—old rifles and shotguns, saddles inlaid with silver, sombreros, all the trappings.

Miranda enters, briskly striding across the reception area to her office.

“Your five o’clock appointment is here, Mrs. Sparks,” her personal secretary informs her. “Mr. Hopkins, from San Francisco.”

Miranda, whose mind has been going in a million different directions, looks over, momentarily startled.

Blake Hopkins—the man waiting for her—is the man who fucked her standing up on her own porch out at her ranch, the same man who watched from the back of the Board of Supervisors’ chamber when she made her request to have her beachfront property rezoned.

He smiles at her pleasantly, puts down the copy of
The New Yorker
he was glancing through.

Miranda recovers in a flash. As she passes into her private office: “Put the telephones on hold, Celeste, and then you can leave. I’ll close up when I go.”

“Yes, Mrs. Sparks.” Celeste has been with Miranda for six years. She knows how to do what she’s told.

Miranda ushers Hopkins into her office, closes the door, locks it.

“Busy day,” Hopkins comments.

“No rest for the weary,” she tells him. She doesn’t look weary—she looks sharp, preternaturally bright, almost.

“How did your meeting with the dolphin lovers go?” he asks.

“They’re happy campers.”

“And you?”

“We get a ton of great publicity and a humongous tax writeoff on a piece of property that we aren’t doing anything with, and we still own it. And most importantly, we’ve gotten the most extreme faction of our local environmentalists off our back.”

“You’re cynical,” he understates admiringly.

“I’m realistic,” she corrects him.

“All in all, not a bad day’s work,” he remarks.

“The day isn’t over yet,” she says, crossing to him and kissing him full on the mouth. He responds by kissing the back of her neck, lightly nibbling his way up to her ear. She shudders as he bites the lobe.

“We have to be careful in here,” she cautions. “Someone might walk in.”

“You locked the door,” he says. “And since when do you care?”

“Because if anyone sees you …”

“No one in this town knows me.”

“But they will.”

“But they don’t.”

With intense, sudden ardor she’s on him, she’s taking off his clothes and hers at the same time, he yanks her boots off her, her jeans are down around her ankles, he’s tearing off his own shoes, socks, pants, all the while she’s kissing him, his chest, his back, their shirts come off, she’s braless, her breasts stand straight out, the nipples tipped up, goosebumps popping, he lifts her hard tight ass off the floor and goes down on her while he’s on his knees, eating her through her cotton panties, they get into sixty-nine position on the floor, his cock in her mouth, his mouth on her vagina, middle finger inside, they turn to each other, embracing, she takes him in her, slowly, inch by inch, they fuck intensely, savoring each other.