Off in the distance, the retriever sniffed the air and bolted off after something. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m lapsing into wishful thinking because I’d just love it if she didn’t try to destroy herself. But she did. And for all I know, Puck never touched dope. Just a shy guy with circulatory problems.”
“No,” he said, “there’s something off about him. I wanted to check him out on the computer this morning, but I got called to the market two-eleven at six-thirty. First thing I do when I get back is play computer games. Got an address for him?”
“Ken said Studio City. Are you still going to check out Trafficant?”
“Sure, why not? I’m already pushing buttons.”
“Poor Lucy,” I said. “Another hurt.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Hurt seems to be on her dance card.”
It was 1 P.M. when I got back to Malibu. While stopped at a red light near the pier, I caught a look at Shooting the Curl’s facade. White building, blued windows. A sign with fat white letters spelling out the name over a mural of a wet-suited surfer riding a big wave.
Paradise Cove was ten miles later. A neon sign on a tall pole pointed toward the beach. THE SAND DOLLAR Breakfast Lunch Dinner. Impulsively, I turned off.
A dipping road took me past an acre or so of wildflowers, then a trailer park shaded by huge shaggy eucalyptus. Between the trees, the water was flat and silver. Another hundred feet and I came up against a guardhouse and a lowered wooden arm. A sign said the beach was private and it would cost $5 to go any farther unless I was eating at the restaurant.
The kid in the guardhouse stuck his head out. His nose was peeling and his sunglasses were mirrored.
“Sand Dollar,” I said.
“Five bucks.” He handed me a ticket. “Get this stamped and I’ll give it back to you when you leave.”
I drove down the final slope to a big wide parking lot. The restaurant was down at the bottom, set on the sand, a wood-shingled shuttered thing with a Happy Hour banner above the door.
Inside was a dark waiting area carpeted in red felt, paneled in cheap wood, and hung with salt-eaten nautical gear. No one was waiting, but a cigarette was smoldering in an ashtray. To the right was a cavelike bar with a couple of people bellying up and watching stand-up comedy on cable. Straight ahead was an empty host’s stand and, beyond that, the restaurant.
The main room was gigantic, the way L.A. restaurants used to be before the land boom, with two long rows of red brass-buttoned booths and the same felt carpeting. The entire beach wall was glass. A big storm, several years ago, had sheared off one-third of the pier. The remains jutted over the water. A few tourists sat on the beach. The people in the restaurant looked mostly like locals, but there weren’t many of them and they were distributed thinly.
A couple of waitresses were working, one young and redheaded, the other in her fifties with a squat face and cropped gray hair. Both wore pink blouses, black pants, and red aprons, their sleeves rolled up, their eyes tired. A busboy collected dishes from a table in the far corner.
The host was a tall, heavy, white-bearded man. He noticed me and stopped talking to a busboy.
“Lunch for one,” I said, and he took me to a window booth.
The older waitress showed up a few minutes later, all business. I ordered the Angler’s Breakfast, $10.95 (Served All Day): deep-fried red snapper, eggs, hash browns, juice, and coffee. The food was good and I tried to eat slowly. By the time I finished, the restaurant was nearly empty and the waitress was nowhere in sight. I finally spotted her in the bar, smoking and watching TV, and gave a wave.
She came over, looking peeved. Her name tag said DORIS.
I handed her a twenty and the parking stub and she went to get change. Pulling out Best’s data sheet, I scanned the names of the restaurant staffers.
Doris Reingold?
When she returned, I said, “Keep five for yourself,” and got a big smile.