California Girl

TWO HOURS later Andy had written both pieces. He had never written lies before and the words sat oddly on the paper. It left him tired, like the ribbon ink was blood that had come out of his body.

He put the originals and two sets of carbons in his briefcase, locked it, and headed out for Millie’s.

Nick read them in the poor light of a red vinyl booth. He finished, rubbed his chin. “It’s these or Katy?”

Andy nodded.

“Oh man,” whispered Nick.

ANDY PLACED the original articles in Jonas Dessinger’s in-basket just after six that evening. Carbon number one went to his editor, Teresa. Carbon number two went into his top desk drawer.

Jonas called at 6:10 to say he loved the pieces. He wanted to substitute the words “bogged-down” and “overmatched” for “lengthy” and “less experienced.”

Andy told him to take it up with Teresa.

Teresa called at 6:15 to say she couldn’t believe her overbred cousin was putting him through this. She demanded to know what the cause of all this animosity was, but Andy wouldn’t say. She thought “overmatched” was speculative and untrue.

“Listen to what you wrote,” she said. “‘After two agonizing weeks, we at the Journal have begun to wonder if the evidence that has stumped the rookie detective might be better evaluated by a more seasoned investigator.’”

“Orders from your overbred cousin.”

“I can bad-mouth my family. You can’t.”

“I have to bad-mouth my own.”

“Andy, what’s going on?”

“Talk to the associate publisher. He’s the psychopath fashion model on the third floor.”

“I’m going to.”

Andy called Verna and got a home number for Sharon Santos. It cost him drinks and maybe di

“Andy,” said Sharon, “I’d kill myself before I’d hurt Nick.”

A chill shivered up Andy’s back. “Avoid both,” he said.

“All right.”

He left the building through the display advertising department back door. Couldn’t face Teresa, whom he loved, or Jonas, whom he hated. Or the owlish copy editors or surly night-beat photogs.

Andy gu

He couldn’t believe Jonas could make him screw over Nick like this. Make him screw himself over. Like a bad dream. All he ever wanted to do was write a decent book someday and stick by the people he loved. Not accomplishing either of those, he thought. Writing lies to hurt Nick was all he was doing. Either do that, or destroy Nick and Katy. He had the idea of getting Jonas off somewhere quiet to talk to him, maybe Jonas would get rational. Like maybe the end of the Newport Pier, and when they were done talking Andy could push him off.

21

LYNETTE VONN LIVED up in Huntington Beach. She let Andy in without a smile. Straight black hair, early twenties, thin. Bell-bottoms made her look thi

Lynette made them coffee and they sat in the den. Green shag carpet, a TV with rabbit ears, and a Magnavox hi-fi on a rolling stand with clear wheels. Andy smelled marijuana and incense. The house was a small craftsman cottage with a chain-link fence around the backyard and an oil pumper beyond the fence. Through the den window the pumper looked like a monstrous steel grasshopper gnawing away. The night was cool and the windows were open. Andy smelled ocean and crude oil. The neighbors had the radio on, “Sunshine of Your Love” riding in with the smells.

Lynette told him she had left the Tustin home when she was fourteen. Run off with one of her brother Le

“Wow,” said Andy.

Lynette shook her head and sighed. “Pure crazy. I hitchhiked down here last year. Liked it and stayed. Had some money saved. I’m waitressing over at the Bear. I can’t get you in free but I can get you good seats once you pay your way in.”

Andy had been to the Golden Bear a lot. Seen the Kingston Trio and Peter, Paul & Mary, and Pete Seeger and Dylan and all the folkies, but now they were doing almost all rock and roll, thank God.

“Did you and Janelle stay in touch?”

“It turned out that she wrote me a lot of letters but didn’t know where to mail them. I pretty much dropped out. When I got this place and got clean I called her and she came over. Brought the letters in a box. It was kinda fu

Andy looked at Lynette. My sister, he thought. “Maybe you were more alike than you think.”

Lynette stared at Andy with her big brown eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you both had a talent for what most people would consider trouble.”

“No question it was trouble.”

“The same kind of hunger for something,” said Andy. “But for what? To get to something better?”

“Just to get away, I think. Did you know her well?”

“No, not really. I admired her, though. Something about her.”

“She was pretty,” said Lynette.

“But more than pretty. Remember the guitar and tutu?”

“That tutu was mine.”

Andy looked out the window to the big oil pumper. It chomped away at the ground, drawing up the crude. He thought of Lynette throwing the rocks at them after the rumble by the packinghouse. And Janelle with the oranges she didn’t throw. And Janelle on the porch of the Holt Avenue house, shaking her curls and rasping out that song. And Janelle coming out of the White House nightclub in Laguna that night. With Jesse Black and the surf movie guy and Cory Bo

For the millionth time in his life, Andy’s i