“You were checking out that Starship Enterprise deal, right?” he said, eyeing the house on the sand. “Know who owns it?”
“Who?”
“Dave Dell.”
“The game-show host?”
“The game-show host and mega-gazillionaire—guy started out as an AM disc jockey, bought up Malibu land back when Lincoln was president, got himself a sweet chunk of bluff, man. He’s partnering with the dudes who’re doing that.” Cocking his head at the restaurant renovation. “Downtown dudes.”
“Nice investment,” I said.
“That’s what they live for—more and more and more. Borrowing someone else’s money.” He laughed. “Thing is, except for that house of his—Dell’s—all those humongoid things are on bluffs and most of them got no beach at all. They got their views to China, but they don’t have serious sand because of the way Paradise is shaped. Even the ones that dogot some, and even at low tide, it ain’t much—little squares where you can sit and watch your money wash away. ‘Cause the whole damn beach is disappearing.”
“Really?”
“You bet, man. Inches each year, maybe more—you never heard about it?”
“Sounds familiar,” I said. “Global warming or something. I wasn’t sure it was true.”
“Oh, it’s true all right. Global warming, El Nino, La Nina, La Cu-caracha, the ozone layer, all that shit. One of these days, we’re gonna have this conversation from La Brea.”
He laughed again and shook his head. The yellow thatch was salt-stiff, and it didn’t vibrate. “Meanwhile, a bum like me’s got all this sand for free, and they got their little private patches of nothing— You actually pay twenty bucks to come down here? Didn’t Carleton tell you everything’s closed up?”
“He did, but I wanted to see it anyway.” I pointed down the coast. “Still beautiful.”
“Yeah.” Another grin. Sly. “You’re bullshitting me, man. Carleton don’t charge no one no more. He and the other trailer folk are pissed about what they done to the Dollar, and I can’t say I blame them, so they let anyone in free who wants to. Which isn’t too many.” He shrugged, and the puka necklace rattled; “Used to be, you couldn’t find a parking space and they were filming commercials all the time. Now it’s El Quieto, which is fine with me. Things change and then you die. Bye, man. Enjoy.”
As he walked away from me, I said, “I heard Tony Duke lives in one of those bluff houses.”
He stopped, turned. “Hell, yeah. It’s nothing but his type and Hollywood assholes up there.” He rubbed his chin, looked up into the sun. In the full light I saw a canker sore sprouting under his lower lip. Raw spots on his forehead glistened precancerously. “Duke’s place is about five properties down. I swam by a few times, seeing if I could maybe catch a look at some of those girls he keeps there. No luck.”
“Too bad.”
Snort. “Like I’d know what to do if I found something.”
“How’d you know which place is his?”
“Easy. You can’t see the house—it’s set far back, like most of them. But Duke’s got this wooden cable-car doohickey running along the side of his bluff. Little box on tracks that goes up and down. Everyone else has steps, but he’s got that. Guess the guy’s serious about leisure, like he says—wants to waste his calories on pussy, not climbing stairs. It’s a cool little deal, that car, but I never seen anyone actually using it.”
“A funicular,” I said.
“If you say so. Other of the guys have gone by there too—swimming, kayaking. Especially when Duke’s got a party going. Everyone wanting an eyeful of pussy, maybe catch some looker sucking dick—something you could take a picture of and send home to Mom.” He laughed. “The gizmo’s always at the top of the bluff, locked up, and when Duke’s partying, there’s bouncers there—big meat, like iron pumpers, standing on top of the cliff like they’re waiting for someone to piss ’em off.”
“I hear he uses off-duty cops for that.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me—even scarier, right?”
“Right.”
“Anyway, no one ever gets to see any girls.”
“Does Duke throw lots of parties?”
“He used to. Like every two months. You’d see the superstretches lined up on PCH, valets, heat lamps, caterers’ trucks, the works. But not in a long time.” He thought. “Not in a real long time—a year, maybe more. Maybe he’s getting too old for it—that would be a hell of a thing, wouldn’t it? Cool old dude like that, living on caviar and Viagra, surrounded by pussy but losing the desire. ‘Cause it wouldn’t matter how wrinkled his nut bag was and how far down it hung. There’s one perfume that opens up pussy faster than Kama Sutra Love Oil.” He rubbed his index finger with his thumb and sniffed.