T. Parker - Laguna Heat

The first thing that appeared out of the darkness was a tiny, poorly lit stand at the far end. Sitting under the single hanging lamp was a blue-uniformed guard, apparently reading. The door thudded shut behind him, then the entire underground cavern flashed alive with light. He felt Datilla’s hand on his arm, guiding them toward glittering automobiles.

“My other love,” Datilla’s voice continued behind him. “My true loves, my wives, my concubines, my children. These are my babies, Tom. Thirty-eight of them, counting the Sportster I use around town.”

“Ah. The collection. I’ve heard about this.”

They stopped. Shephard felt in need of a tour guide. Most of the cars were foreign, strange machines that he had rarely seen on the road, all polished to a frenzy of color and chrome. He recognized a Ferrari Boxer, a vintage Mustang convertible much like his own, an Alfa Romeo Veloce, but that was all. The rest evaded description.

“I could tell you about the Mondial over there in the far corner,” Datilla said. “Or the Maserati here on the left, or the Silver Shadow in the middle there. But I’m not into cars for what they’re worth, I love them for what they are. I’ve got a ’seventy Honda mini-car buried out there somewhere, a beautiful little machine that gets about sixty miles on a gallon of gas and corners like a go-kart. I’ve got a homely old Rambler here because at times I feel like a homely old man. There’s a new RX-7 on the far side; it’s a car that a million people own and a classic since it first came out of Japan. A car for every mood, Tom. They’re here to impress nobody but me. I love them all the same, too.”

Shephard gazed out over the cars.

“I’ve got a full-time guard to watch them, but not full-time enough,” Datilla said. “Believe it or not, I lost one Monday morning. Somebody came right in and took it. Broke my heart. A red Coupe de Ville convertible, pristine and fun as hell to hit the town in on a summer night. Gone. Hope they find it soon.”

“What year?” Shephard asked, warming to a possibility.

“Nineteen sixty-four.”

“Monday morning you said? Late or early?”

“Must have been late. I tracked down the guard a day later and chewed his ass good. He said he left for an hour because he needed to go to the bank. Should have fired old Mink, I suppose. Didn’t even lock up. Shit, can you imagine?”

“Do you remember the plates, Joe?”

“Gave it to the Newport cops Wednesday. Hold on.”

“I’ll keep a special eye out.”

Shephard watched as Datilla disappeared into the sea of cars, working his way to the tiny guard hut in the far corner. The timing was right, he thought. The car stolen Monday morning late, in time for a stop by Forest Avenue Books. But why hadn’t it shown on the Stolen printout from Sacramento? Datilla came back with a grubby slip of paper, which he handed to Shephard, and the answer was clear: IAEA 896. Different plates, different car. Just another finger pointing to the Surfside. Were they all coincidence? He pocketed the slip anyway, out of habit. Datilla thanked him profusely for the personal attention. Shephard showed the Identikit. Datilla looked for a long moment, shaking his head.

“Sorry, Tom. Kind of looks like anybody, you know? Anyway, I’ve bored you with my enthusiasms. Let’s get up where the sun still shines.” Datilla locked the doors behind them, and checked them twice.

The sunlight was dazzling.

“How about a tour of the club, Tom? Plenty you haven’t seen.”

Shephard offered his hand. “Joe, buddy, you’ve been a tremendous help. If you don’t mind, I’ll wander around a bit, then head back.”

Datilla looked slightly disappointed, but rallied. “Fine, young man. Tell your father hello for me. And watch yourself around here, plenty of young ladies to get you in trouble. If any mention a taste for a distinguished gentleman of the older persuasion, give my number quick.” Datilla pumped his hand, then turned and headed back toward the courts.

Shephard waited a moment, then backtracked to the walkway that led past the pool. The woman was still swimming; she stopped at the end of a lap and smiled at him, then pushed off.

The walkway ended at A Dock, where tinny Hawaiian music issued from the lounge. He stepped onto the wooden docking, feeling the gentle sway of the structure, watching the huge yachts dipping and rising slowly overhead. The sunlight blared off their white hulls. He squinted and read the names: Priceless, Datilla’s vessel; Interceptor, Marybeth, Comeback. Above him, he watched a crewman dangle a broom over the hull of Priceless and scrub an invisible blemish. Keeping a ship like that clean isn’t a job, he thought, it’s a career.

Then, as surely as he was studying the yachts, Shephard knew that someone was studying him. The feeling came, passed, came again. When he turned to look over his shoulder, the woman from the swimming pool, dripping wet and balancing a highball in her hand, was looking at him from the A Dock lounge.

He turned back and meandered down to the lesser vessels of B Dock.

Footsteps on the wood, the clapping of sandals not in a hurry. Then a gruff woman’s voice behind him. “Looking to buy?” it asked.

Shephard turned to face a pair of washed-out gray eyes, a deeply creased face, a head of dripping black and gray hair, two large bosoms. The highball tinkled in her hand and the scar on her wrist was obvious. “Not exactly,” he said.

“I’m Dorothy Edmond. I used to own a Ditmar Donaldson ninety. John Wayne told me it was the only ship on the water he liked better than the Goose .”

“That’s very nice.”

“Don’t bore me, young man. Phonies always bore me.”

She cracked a shrewd but not unfriendly smile. “I’ve seen more of the world than you dream of and I’d go back for seconds if I had the time.” He noticed that the eyes were red-rimmed and that her breath carried more alcohol than was missing from one highball. “Now, let me guess. You’re a captain looking for a ship?”

“No.”

“A mate looking for a captain?”

“No again.”

“A tennis hustler looking for a match?”

“No.”

“How about a dick named Tom Shephard wondering why two old-timers from the Surfside got burned up?”

He studied Dorothy Edmond’s red-rimmed gray eyes, which said nothing back.

“Oh damn,” she said suddenly, looking behind her down the dock. Joe Datilla was hustling toward them, tennis racquet in hand, cursing the crew of the Priceless as he went by. “Forget what I just said for a half hour. Then call me.”

Datilla was dripping sweat. Must have been some bucket of balls, Shephard thought. He smiled quickly at Shephard, then turned his aggravated face to Dorothy. “Dot, trouble with Bank of Newport. Barnes and Kaufman are on their way here for bad news on the Carlsbad escrow. Meet them when they get here, keep them out of my hair for an hour while I run some figures. They’re due at three. Hustle up, please, honey. I told you about this yesterday, dear.”

“Oh, Joe, tell them to go home.” She beamed, twirling the drink.

“That’s ten minutes,” he said quickly. “Go to, Dorothy. I need your persuasive skills.”

She upped the glass and got only ice. “Just when I thought I had a young buck interested in my old bones. I’ll get you for this, Joe Datilla.”

Datilla grinned as Dorothy broke away and climbed the ramp back to the lounge. “Sorry, Tommy, these things come up. Anything I can show you?”

“Sorry to be in the way, Joe. I’ve got to head back. Just wanted a look at the fabled A Dock.”

Datilla walked him toward the guard gate, most of the way in silence.