Michael Nava - Goldenboy

“Can’t complain,” Zane replied, his voice watery from drinking. “You waiting for someone?”

There was silence.

Zane spoke again. “You wanna go for a ride? I’ve got some grass here.”

“Sure,” Josh said. My stomach clenched. I looked up and watched as he climbed into Zane’s car. We heard the engine start up and then the Chevette drifted lazily down the street.

A match was struck. We heard someone sucking in air and then, in a tight voice, Zane said, “Take it.”

More sucking noises. Cresly said to Daniels, “Follow them.”

We pulled a turn across four lanes of traffic and drove down the street where the Chevette had gone. The only noises we heard were of the joint being smoked. A moment later, we got the Chevette in sight. It pulled over to the curb. We passed it. I resisted the temptation to glance over at Josh.

“So,” we heard Zane say, “what’s your name?”

Josh said, “Josh. What’s yours?”

“Charlie,” Zane said. “What are you into, Josh?”

We turned up the first street and headed back to Santa Monica, then turned back, making a circle, toward the Chevette. Cresly instructed Daniels to park just before we got to the street where the Chevette was parked.

Josh was saying, “Whatever, you know. Anything you want.”

Cresly glanced at me without expression.

There was a movement in the Chevette. Josh laughed. “That tickles,” he said.

Zane said, “Does this tickle?”

There was squeaking, rapid breathing, silence, then a slow breath and a sigh.

Daniels asked, “What’s going on in there?”

“They’re making out,” I said. Daniels stared at me.

“Gross,” he muttered.

Zane said, “That was nice. How come I haven’t seen you around before?”

“I just got into town,” Josh replied.

“I know someplace around here we can go,” Zane said. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you let me — “ A sudden wave of static drowned out the rest of his sentence.

“Okay,” Josh said.

We heard the engine start up. Cresly told Daniels, “Go around again.”

We edged up to the intersection of the street where the Chevette was parked. Just as we turned, and the Chevette started moving, a black-and-white appeared from still another street.

“What the fuck,” Cresly said, and yanked the transmitter from the radio, trying to signal the black-and-white It passed beneath a streetlight as it slowly approached the Chevette. It wasn’t L.A.P.D. but the county sheriffs who had, apparently, drifted across the county line into the city. A flashlight flared from within the black-and-white as it pulled up beside the Chevette.

Zane said, “Shit.” He gunned the motor and made a run for Highland. The black-and-white’s red lights flashed and we heard it order Zane to pull over.

We pulled out behind the sheriffs. Cresly was screaming into the radio trying to stop them from giving chase.

“Clear out!” Cresly was yelling. Abruptly, the black-and- white stopped. Over the radio, someone was asking for clarification. The Chevette, however, was gone.

We came up beside the sheriffs. Cresly rolled the window down and continued screaming at the driver. A couple of minutes later he slumped into the seat, breathing hard. He picked up the transmitter and canvassed the other L.A.P.D. cars in the area. Finally, he turned to me and said, “We lost them.”

“What!”

“I said we lost them, goddammit. Put out an APB,” he snapped at Daniels.

I listened as Daniels gave an urgent description of the Chevette and its passengers.

Cresly looked at me again. “Where would he go, Rios? Home?”

“Not likely if his wife is there,” I replied, trying to keep my panic in check. ‘Maybe he’ll just drop Josh off and call it a night. You might have someone watching the car rental place.”

“That’s covered,” he said. “Anywhere else you can think of?”

“He has a place in Malibu,” I said, finally.

“What’s the address?”

“I don’t know. His wife, she would know. I think I could get us in the neighborhood, though.”

Cresly’s mouth twitched. “All right,” he said. “You tell us how to get there. I’ll send a car to his wife and get the address to alert the sheriffs in Malibu. Can you think of anywhere else he might go?”

I shook my head.

Cresly ordered a car to go to Zane’s house and get the Malibu address from Irene Gentry. Freeman, who had been stone silent, said, “I’m sorry, Henry.”

“Let’s hope you don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“Where do we go?” Cresly asked.

“Out Sunset to the Coast Highway,” I said, “then go north into Malibu.”

“You heard the man,” Cresly snapped at Daniels. He reached to the floor and came up with a siren which he stuck to the top of the car. We shot into the darkness, the siren whining and utter silence between us.

We sped through the city, its lights exploding around us like landmines. As we passed through UCLA, the radio crackled. I could not make out what was being said but a moment later, Cresly looked at me over his shoulder.

“We got an address from Zane’s wife,” he said. “Twenty- eight hundred Sweetwater Canyon Road. That sound right?”

“I never knew the address,” I replied, “but I should be able to recognize the house.”

Cresly relayed the address to the sheriffs in Malibu, who had already been alerted to what was happening.

“They’ll probably beat us to him,” Daniels, the other cop, said. He sounded disappointed.

I sat back in the seat. Freeman lit a cigarette. We passed a row of luxury condominium buildings lit up against the darkness of the January sky like ocean liners. A helicopter swept through the red skies. Traffic yielded in our wake and soon we were at the end of Sunset, facing the dark ocean at the end of the land. We turned onto the Coast Highway.

I considered the possibilities. If we found them at Malibu and Josh was unharmed, then there would be no reason to arrest Zane and no chance to link him to the murders he had committed. But if Josh was hurt — I stopped myself. If they were there at all. They could be anywhere in this catacomb of a city and anything could be happening. My body grew cold.

I looked out the window to the ocean. The last time I had been out here, the sea was alive with light. Now it swagged against the shore illuminated only by car headlights as they flickered, briefly, across the ocean’s oily darkness. I thought of Sandy Blenheim, who had been disgorged by the sea only a few days earlier, and it was with relief that I turned away from the water as the highway twisted inland. Soon, the honky-tonk business district of Malibu sprang up around us. We passed the bar where I had stopped to call Freeman. The woman who had flipped me off might be there now, getting herself comfortably drunk.

Without warning, a seismic shiver worked its way up my spine. When it passed I found myself balling my hands into fists.

Freeman, sitting beside me, asked, “You okay?”

We skidded across an intersection. There was a Texaco station at the southwest corner and a road beside it that led off into darkness. Suddenly, I knew that that was the road that led to Zane’s place.

“We’re going the wrong way,” I said.

Cresly said, “What?”

“The road where Zane lives. We just passed it.”

“Sweetwater Canyon’s up a ways,” Daniels said tentatively.

“Don’t you understand?” I said impatiently. “She lied to us.”

“You sure?” Cresly asked, skeptically.

“I remember the gas station back there. That’s where I turned.”

There was silence in the front seat.

“We’re wasting time,” I snapped. “Cresly…”