Breach of Promise (28 page)

My insides were exploding as I gunned the Accord. Drive, drive, drive, figure out what to do.
I finally reached the crest in the grade and thought for a moment about plowing through the guardrail, over the side. Compromising, I stopped at a turnout, got out of my car, and looked over the side. Scrubby pines stuck up like spears. It didn’t look like lovely nature.
I started to think thoughts that scared me. Would anybody care if they found my body, bloody and bruised, at the bottom of a gorge? What would it do to Maddie? It couldn’t be any worse than what Paula and Troncatti were doing to her. No doubt they had her convinced she had been molested. And they probably had some quack doctor to say whatever Bryce Jennings wanted him to say.
I was history. The allegations would go out over the news, and whatever scrap of reputation I had left would be like gum on the bottom of a shoe.
Then I remembered something Nikki told me. It was the word
hope
. She’d said that the one thing Christians had that atheists didn’t was hope. If you were convinced that the universe was a great big void, and when you died you became worm food, hope was a pipe dream, a deception, a ruse.
Yeah, I thought as I stared down at the gorge, but maybe hope was not enough to live on anymore.
What kept me from jumping was an old familiar feeling. Good old hatred. And a picture of Troncatti feeling satisfied, the great director directing his greatest scene: the death of a jerk.
I got back in my car and drove to the ocean. And that’s where I gave God my ultimatum.
Standing in the sand, looking at the water that Maddie loved so much, I just cranked out a prayer.
I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t even know what to say to you. Why won’t you make it stop? Why won’t you give me some sign that you’re there, that you’ll help me out a little here? What’s going on, I want to know—I have to know, so tell me. Or I’m just going to go on by myself and forget everything. It isn’t worth it if I can’t have Maddie. Is that clear enough? Then be clear back to me, will you? Finally?
I stayed at the beach till the sun went down. I didn’t hear any voice from the sky. The only thing I felt was the wind, and it got cold out there.
But on the way back to the apartment I found myself behind a slow-moving car, an old Chrysler, one that had seen its best days when George Bush the elder was president. What caught my eye was the faded bumper sticker it had stuck on its old chrome:

From some dark, dim corner of my mind, came this laugh. The only thing I can compare it to is that famous laugh from Boris Karloff’s
The Mummy,
where Bramwell Fletcher goes screamingly, laughingly crazy at the sight of the walking dead. My laugh was just like that—maniacal, all consuming. For about one minute I laughed, until I realized cars were honking behind me. I sped up, knowing I’d crossed over some line I had never quite seen, never wanted to see.

Alex called me the next morning, checking up on me, telling me to hang in there. And pray. I was way ahead of her, though I didn’t tell her about my ultimatum to God.

I also didn’t tell her that I hadn’t slept all night and was, in fact, feeling like another person. Like some big part of me had been yanked out and twisted too much to get back in.

Roland knew something was wrong when I sleepwalked through the lunch shift at Josephina’s. He tried to get me to talk but I wouldn’t. It was like I didn’t want
anybody
talking to me. No personal contact. Roland invited me to come hear him play that night and I think I only grunted.

After the shift, though, I got some contact I did want. My cell phone chimed as I was driving home. The voice on the other end was smooth and dark, like black honey. “I’m the guy Mr. Ayers told you about.”
“Mr. Ayers?” I said. “I don’t recall—”
“Maybe he didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“About me.”
A Hummer nearly cut me off with a lane change. “Hold it,” I said. “Who are you?”
“The guy Mr. Ayers hired.”
“To do what?”
“Find things out.”
My hand started to sweat as I held the phone to my ear. I remembered that Milo Ayers said he would help me out. I guess this was it. “Are you like a private investigator?”
“Like that,” he said. “Yeah.”
“And what have you found out?”
“A couple of things. You were looking for Ron Reid, right? Your old man?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a couple of days on that. I might have an address for you.”
The thought made me anxious, as if I wasn’t that already.
“The other thing is that Italian and your wife.”
Now I almost rear-ended the Hummer, which was still in front of me. “What about them?”
“His house is on Dakota up by—”
“I know where it is.”
“I was watching the place last night. There’s a big slope down the street, another guy’s house but it’s way back, I could scope the Italian’s place from there.” He pronounced it
Eye-talian
, which I found odd and amusing at the same time. “You can see right into the pool area and into a big window of the house.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I’m getting to that. I think I saw your wife, or is she your exwife?”
“Ex, I guess, though it isn’t official yet.”
“Bummer. Anyway, I saw her sit in a chair and it was like she was talking to somebody. Then she stood up and clenched her fists and started screaming at whoever it was. That’s all I could see.”
“How could you see this?”
“Nightscope. No big deal. But it just looked to me like there was a little trouble in paradise.”
A scene played out in my mind, of Paula screaming at Troncatti, and it was vivid. I could almost hear the voices shouting.
“Is that all?” I said.
“Yeah. I’ll call you about your old man.”
He cut out before I got his name. But that wasn’t heavy on my mind at the moment. What was heavy was Paula. And Maddie. In a house with Troncatti. And something bad was going on, I was sure.
But what could be done about it? The police? Tell them to go out there because some PI had told me he was snooping and saw Paula upset about something?
Sure. In a case where I was being accused of sexually molesting my own daughter.
No. I had to do something.
The Lord helps those who help themselves
kept going through my mind
.
That’s not in the Bible, I know that now. I should have known it then.

Instead of going home I drove down to Jamy’s Optics and picked out the best scope they had. LN–24 Night Vision. Set me back $1,200. They took Visa.

A sweet scope, the LN–24. Computerized proximity sensor, digital control, long-range infrared illuminator. You can see a bug scratch itself in total darkness from three hundred yards away. The guy at the store gave me a half-hour seminar on how to use it. By the time he was through I was a black belt in light amplification and infrared magnitude.

“You doing some PI work?” the guy asked me.
“Just for myself.”
“You could go into business with that thing.”
“I just may do that.”
I poured myself into my car and took the freeway to the 405,

taking the loop toward the west side. I got off at Sunset just under the looming gaze of the Getty Museum. It was up there on its perch, looking down at the city, me especially. I wondered if there were other people there, taking a break from the masterpieces of European art, to care about what went on below.

The traffic on Sunset was backed up. The sun was beating down and made the car feel like a kid’s lunchbox left on the playground. My air-conditioning wasn’t working and the flow through the open windows was nothing more than hot breath. There was even an accident—a bumper thumper around Roxbury—that gave me no choice but to take my sweet time.

It also gave me the opportunity to think a little bit about what I was going to do once I got near Troncatti’s house.
Like driving the car right through the gate. Ram that baby like it was those big battering rams they used to break down castle doors with. I’d smash in and drive through the front door, lay down some rubber in the living room, hop out and say, “Hey, guys, nice to see ya.”
Then Maddie would come running through the living room, giggling loudly like she always did when I came home, and jump into my arms and say, “Daddy, let’s go for a ride.”
“Sure honey,” I’d say. “But before we do I have a little business to attend to.” I’d go over to Troncatti and I’d grab him by the lapels of his imported shirt and throw him through one of those big plate glass windows that surrounded his house like vanity mirrors.
And then I’d turn to Paula and I’d say, “Are you ready to forget all this and come home?”
And she would quietly nod her head, give me a kiss on the cheek, and then all of us would get back in the car and drive away from the Troncatti house once and for all.
That’s the way you dream of revenge in LA, I guess. With real audience appeal and plenty of shattering glass.
Traffic opened up a little bit past Roxbury, but it was still a long, slow drive until I got to Dakota. As I turned the steering wheel, it slipped in my fingers. I could feel the sweat stains in my armpits. If a cop would have stopped me, I’m sure he would’ve thought I was some lunatic who’d forgotten to take his meds but had, somehow, stolen a car.
I continued to climb up the curving road. Every house I passed seemed to be an immaculate example of how perfect people live. I saw a gardener, a Latino, hunched over a clump of yellow flowers in front of a huge, Tudor mansion. He looked up at me when I passed, and his eyes seemed to say
I know you’re an intruder but what am I going to do about it?
When I got near Troncatti’s house I almost slammed on the brakes. What if Paula and Troncatti and Maddie were outside the gate? What if they were in the limo with Igor at the wheel?
And what if my daughter saw me, her eyes meeting mine, and she turned away in disgust? I don’t think I could’ve handled that.
But with my pulse pumping, I drove on. I had to. This was the only thing left for me to do. No exit, no turning back.
I heaved a little sigh of relief when I saw there was no one out on the driveway. Place was as closed up as a bankrupt theater. The gates were shut and some thick, visual barrier had been put up, keeping gawkers from being able to see inside.
I drove on, looking for that slope the guy had told me about. I found it at the bottom of another private driveway that coiled up a hill. There was a fancy mailbox at the bottom of this driveway—a smaller version of a mansion set atop a twisting chain.
Stopping my car, I got out to take a quick look. That’s when a dog started barking.
I couldn’t see the house where the sound was coming from, but it sounded like a house further up the road. It was a big dog, too, and from where we were in this canyon, his
woof
echoed around like a big, pounding Salvation Army drum.
I wondered if the dog barked all the time anyway, or if it was just me. Because if I got up the hill at night and no one saw me, but this dog kept beating the drum, there’d probably be a 9-1-1.
Hey God,
I thought.
Maybe you can at least take care of a dog for me, huh?

And what a night.
I drove up there again and it was like Oscar night at Troncatti’s. Major party going on. Cars and limos driving up to the big gate where a couple of burly guys with earpieces would motion them in. There was even a paparazzo flashing pictures as fast as he could with no one making any effort to stop him. I figured this was part of Troncatti’s publicity machine at work.
My Accord was definitely out of character, and I drove on by the gate, catching a quick peek of the inside. For a quick second I thought about jumping out and just running on in. Surprise.
Instead, I drove on, well down the street, then parked. If I kept my eyes open I could get to Checkpoint Charlie—my name for the hillside where I was going to watch the house—without being seen.
I was all made up in my ninja gear, which consisted of black tennis shoes, black Levi’s, and a complementary black T-shirt I’d gotten from watching a taping of
That ’70s Show
. I even wore a black knit hat, the kind OJ reportedly wore when he went out after his ex-wife. Yep, this was going to be a real Hollywood story.
The rest of the street was relatively quiet. But from Troncatti’s I could hear the strains of classic rock. I think it was the Stones, who I never liked. Fitting.
The big dog wasn’t woofing. I wondered if that was a sign from God.
Then, with my scope around my neck, I scurried up the hill.
From where I was positioned, headlights from oncoming cars would not illuminate me. The only thing that could find me would be an LA police helicopter shining its high beams down, not an unlikely scenario. That is, if someone reported something strange happening in their neighborhood.
I had a good view of the swimming pool that was lit up in a light blue shade. All around in the yard were torches set off with flame. It looked like the Tahiti set in
Mutiny on the Bounty.
And all sorts of people were milling around. A bartender in a fancy red coat had a setup near the pool house. Guests were swilling booze and laughing it up. And why not? This was a Hollywood party. At the home of the hottest director in the world. Exclusive. No outsiders allowed. Except I got to watch everything.
There was no sign of Paula or Troncatti for the longest time. I was beginning to think they left the house to an army of lackeys for a weekend without them. And I kept wondering where Maddie was.
Please God, let me see Maddie.
Troncatti finally made an appearance, walking out of the main house and throwing his hands up in the air to every guest that approached him. It was like he was greeting some long-lost brothers. Or maybe it was more like the pope receiving supplicants crawling on their bellies to kiss the great man’s ring.
For a few moments I fantasized that the scope I was looking through was attached to a high-powered rifle. I felt a chill. Had I really been reduced to thinking like this? Something like a voice in my head, whispery but strong, was telling me not to do this, to get out of there, to keep from slipping further into the hole I was digging. Was it the voice of God? I shook it off and just kept watching.
Paula came out a few minutes later. My throat clenched. It felt like she was five feet in front of me. She was in a form-fitting dress, bare shouldered in the warm night. Stunning.
But I noted she did not attach herself to Troncatti. That was surprising to me. I thought they were like trophies to each other, so it was strange they didn’t make the rounds together. I thought they would be the perfect Hollywood couple, strolling arm in arm around a party greeting visitors.
But Paula and Troncatti did not come together. Not once.
Paula looked like she was in a good mood. Maybe too much of a good mood. She was laughing more than was normal for her, almost like she was putting on an act. But I thought I understood that. She was in a throng of real power brokers. That’s what being Troncatti’s squeeze brought her. Who could fault her for trying to make an impression?
I could. Why wasn’t she miserable, like me?
And where was Maddie? Was she inside that house right now? Alone, perhaps, watching TV? Could I slip in and quietly take her now?
My eyes started to feel heavy, so I turned my attention to Troncatti for a while. He was acting hyper, like he was on drugs or something. The guy never stopped moving. And another thing—he kept planting big old kisses on all the women. Not a friendly, niceto-see-you kind. More like the hope-to-see-you-after-the-party variety. No wonder Paula wasn’t hanging around with him. I almost felt bad for her.
Paula went back inside the house a couple of times. She also made several appearances at the bartender station. Paula had never been a big drinker, maybe a glass of wine with dinner sometimes. Now she was throwing the stuff down like Elizabeth Taylor in
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
An hour and a half went by. I was feeling more than exhausted, but I willed myself to keep watching, because the party was in full swing. Some people fell into the swimming pool, fully clothed. That generated a great round of applause from the other guests. Yes, Hollywood is an entertaining town.
Some salsa dancing, very nineties, broke out. I could hear the music. And I could sure see Troncatti grinding against some shapely starlet types. Now I was not just tired; I started feeling sick.
I rolled on my back and tried to keep myself from crying out to the whole neighborhood.
The big dog barked.
I closed my eyes and just breathed. Breathed. And, at some point, I fell asleep.
I had no dreams.
When I woke up the dog wasn’t barking anymore, and the moon had skipped over half the sky. And something was crawling on my face.
I sat up with a gasp and brushed whatever it was off. My neck was kinked and I was cold. And for a minute I didn’t know where I was.
Then I grabbed my scope and looked down. The party was largely over. A few people were still scattered around, but the bartender was gone and the music was over.
No sign of Troncatti or Paula.
The guards were gone from the front gate, which I noted was slightly open now. Maybe they were around somewhere, but for a moment or two it felt like I could have walked right in.
Then I saw some movement in the house.
It was Paula. She had her back to the big front window. She stood, with fists clenched at her sides. And she was screaming something at somebody else in the room.
It was just like what the PI had described, happening all over again. My skin erupted in a million pinpricks.
Troncatti came into the picture, like an actor entering a scene. He grabbed Paula by the shoulders and shook her.
I squeezed the scope so hard my hands started hurting.
And then Antonio Troncatti slapped Paula across the face.