Faye Kellerman - Street Dreams

When I turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, I purposely avoided looking for any of my sources, figuring why screw if you can’t come. I opened the moon roof and enjoyed the heat and sunlight on my skin, the red downy hair of my arms bleached strawberry blond in the bright rays. Here, in the heart of old Tinseltown, pedestrians abounded. There were the tourists who gaped at the street show and snapped picture after picture of weirdo after weirdo. Joining the fray were scores of pierced and spike-haired kids, snacking on junk food, just hanging around. I even spotted some families out for the afternoon, reading the names on the famous star-studded sidewalks. I passed the Kodak Theatre, Mann’s Chinese Theatre, the El Capitan, the newly constructed shopping malls, the old kiosk gift shops, the tattoo parlors, the tacky lingerie boutiques, the sex shops, and other various and sundry scamsters including budget lawyers advertising special rates for bail bonds. Mixed into the scene were the ubiquitous high-rise office buildings. I turned left onto Western, riding the boulevard until it dead-ended at Griffith Park. More people and more traffic, but I didn’t care. I had a destination in mind, but I wasn’t in any hurry to get there.

The route to Koby’s place was circuitous, requiring me to snake through unfamiliar areas of Los Feliz. We had arranged to meet for dinner at a small Italian restaurant, a couple of miles from his house-good and fine, except I was four hours early. If he wasn’t home, well, no big whoop. Maybe I’d drop in on my little sweetie still resting in the baby nursery at Mid-City Peds, pending the outcome of the court custody hearing. I sure hoped the infant wound up with Louise, who really wanted her. The woman was a saint and I hoped a judge was smart enough to see that.

I started the climb into the hills of Silver Lake. The day was bright and beautiful, and when the reservoir came into view, iridescent cobalt against the cityscape, my spirits lifted. There was a whole big world out there, my perspective reminded me. It was up to me to make the most of it.

Koby’s ten-year-old Toyota was in the driveway. I parked curbside, got out, and skipped to the front door, where I rang the bell. It was one of those chimes that couldn’t be heard from the outside. When there was no response, I knocked hard and waited.

After a minute of loitering, I figured he had probably taken a bike ride or a walk. The day was certainly gorgeous enough. I went around to the back metal gate that spanned the driveway. It was rectangular, about five feet tall, and easily scalable. Feeling a bit like a Peeping Thomasina, I gripped the iron top bar and hoisted myself up, peering down his driveway. Toward the back, I could make out an open door, from which I heard the clipped notes of reggae music. The gate latch was padlocked, but that didn’t stop me. I flung myself over the top with minimum effort.

The music got louder as I approached the door, walking along the right side of his house. It was planted with espaliered citrus trees-vines of green weaving through white lattice. The leafy branches were frosted with perfumed white blossoms, and a gentle breeze blew through smogless skies. I was about to knock on the open door, but instead I elected to peer inside.

The room was devoid of conventional furniture, holding only a workbench with a circular saw. Koby was kneeling on all fours, hand-sanding the floor, dust flying every which way. He wore a yellow tank top and jeans, pads protecting his knees, and a surgical mask covering his nose and mouth. His well-defined muscles gleamed with sweat, as if sculpted and oiled. If I had a real vivid imagination, I could have added some jazz. Then the setting would have made a perfect backdrop for a blue movie.

I watched him for several moments, then rapped forcefully on the door. He looked up, turned to the source of the sound, then leaped to his feet, as graceful as a panther. He pulled his mask off his face and turned down the music. With Bob Marley in retreat, I heard the stream of fast patter/talk that could only come from a sports announcer. His face registered confusion.

“What time is it?” he said.

“I’m early,” I told him. “Very early.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Just fine.” I walked inside the room. He was repairing the floorboards, replacing the rotted pieces with fresh strips of wood. The room was small but held a beautiful backyard view: the red-tipped leaves of rosebushes not far from bloom, beyond the bushes a glimpse of the lake. There was sawdust all over the place. It speckled his dark skin like freckles.

“You do your own gardening as well?”

His eyes followed mine out the back window. “The yard is tiny-mostly the rosebushes. I love the roses. In a week or two, it should fill with flowers.”

“It must be beautiful.”

“It is very beautiful.”

I looked at the repairs he had done. The new strips fit perfectly into the running-board pattern. In the corner of the room was a small TV resting on the floor. The Lakers game was on. Conference play-offs.

I pointed to the TV. “What’s the score?”

“Lakers are up by three, two minutes to go to the end of the second quarter. Lawrence Funderburke just scored off the bench for the Kings. They’ve been trading baskets. It’s going to be close.”

I tapped my foot. “I’m restless. Need any help?”

“If you give me about twenty minutes to clean up this mess, and another twenty minutes to clean up myself, we can do something together.”

“You’ll miss the game then.”

“They will survive without my suggestions.”

“Really, I don’t mind helping out.” I looked at the workbench. “I wouldn’t trust myself with the circular saw, but I can sand with the best of them.”

“You’ve done woodwork before?”

“I used to help my dad out when he did the add-ons. He’s one of those handy guys.” I regarded his repairs with admiration. “Probably not unlike yourself. Are you a perfectionist, too?”

Koby shrugged. “Is there any other way?”

“Now that sounds like my father.” I continued to gaze outside. “I saw my father this morning. I asked him for help on a case, and he came through. It was productive. We got some good information. I would have loved to act on it right away, but I promised him that I’d wait until the lead detective got back from his weekend vacation.”

“Why did you promise to wait?”

“Because technically, it’s his case.” I turned to face him. “There’s this thing in LAPD. You’ve got to follow protocol. I have a little problem with that.”

“It’s a tightrope,” Koby said. “To think independently-but not too independently.”

“That sums it up.”

“It is the same in my field. I am the one to spot the first signs of trouble, but I’m not supposed to act without consultation. I must talk to the doctor; I must talk to the psychologist. I consult with the physical therapist, the occupational therapist, the play therapist, and if the kids are older, the speech therapist, the educational therapist, and the reading therapist. In the end”-he smiled-“I use my own judgment. I was a medic in the army. If it’s an emergency, I do what I have to do.”

“Does it get you into trouble?”

“No, because most of the time, I do the consults. I even see the point of the consults. It slows me down. In medicine, to be too quick is often not good.”

“Are you always this rational?”

“Most of the time, yes.”

“That’s also like my dad. Rational.”

“Why do you sneer when you say that?”

I laughed. “I apologize. It is a compliment-even though I’m saying it like it was an insult. My dad is very rational. It makes him really good at what he does.”