Flesh And Blood

“Big project,” I said.

“Oh, yeah,” said the old man, stepping out of the shack. He wore a khaki shirt and gray twill pants cinched tight by a ski

“I saw the sign,” I said, and held out a twenty.

He stared at the bill. “There’s nothing to do down there, amigo.”

“There’s still the beach.”

“Not much of it. They got wood and cement blocks and all kinds of garbage piled all over the place. Haven’t even had a decent film shoot in months – only thing they could film right now would be a disaster movie. They might be hotshots, but someone’s not making money.”

“They?”

“Corporate syndicate.”

“How long’s it been going on?”

“Months. Almost a year.” He looked back at the site. “Owner died, kids inherited, squabbled, sold out to some chain seafood outfit, and they sold to some holding company. They say they’re go

“Yeah,” I said, waving the twenty. “Go

“You’re sure? I don’t even think the Porta Potties are working.”

“I can handle it.”

“Wait till you’re my age – Nice car. Take much maintenance?”

“Just a bit. It’s old but it works.”

He smiled. “Like me.” He started to take the money, shook his head. “Aw, hell, forget it – someone asks you, though, you paid.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me, just change the oil every two thousand miles and keep that thing alive.”

I parked south of the construction zone, well away from the heavy machinery. Gulls picked and pecked in the dirt, and a dozen more birds perched noisily atop what was left of the roof. The shingles that remained were wind-warped and salt-grayed and shit-specked. The birds looked happy enough, squawking and jockeying for space.

I got out, righted my baseball cap, and ambled south along the cove, veering diagonally toward the waterline. Medium tide. No beach chairs like in the old days, just plenty of open, creamy sand. The ocean was even lazier than yesterday, oozing in slowly like a giant glue spill, its retreat discernible only as the gradually deepening stain of water-saturated silica. Off at the southern edge was another shack, white-frame like the guardhouse and not much larger. The blackboard bolted above the door was crowded with sloppy script in that same bright red, proclaiming, KAYAKS! SNORKELS! WET SUITS! COLD DRINKS! Rusty hasp, bolted. I kept walking. Walls of bluff rose behind me. Against the dirt stood a bank of five bright blue plastic Andy Gumps – three of the latrines marked HIMS, two, HERS. Next to the male loos was a large pile of something under layers of bright blue tarp.

I headed toward what was left of the Paradise Cove pier. A few storm seasons ago the gangly structure had been wind-sheared in two, the juttying face washed out to sea and never replaced. Now the remains, condemned and blockaded by county chain link, were a listing, bleached skeleton, the vantage point for yet more noisy gulls and a big, solitary, dignified-looking pelican who’d distanced himself from the din.

A squirt of light hit me full-face as I walked across splotches of yellow sand. The glare made me squint and lower the brim of my cap. False dawn in the afternoon. The flying saucer cloud bank had reversed direction – gliding out toward Japan and leaving behind a pink-pearl residue through which sun struggled to leak. The light that made it through was glossy, almost liquid – squibs of golden ointment.

Even in this ruinous state, the cove was a glorious bit of geography. Thinking of what Tony Duke and his neighbors owned, I sighted down the coast, aiming for a glimpse of the beach estates that claimed the bluffs. But the shoreline curved sharply, and the only home I spotted was a single glass-and-wood thing on stilts, squat and aggressive, ovoid as the cloud bank.

A door slamming from the direction of the latrines made me turn, as a voice behind me said, “Cool, huh?”

I completed the swivel, focused on a red-tan stubbled face. A wiry, midsized man wearing only baggy red swim shorts, standing a few feet away, swinging a key chain. Fat-free torso, corded arms, knees deformed by calcium knots. Coarse peroxided hair with black roots was a crown of thorns above his narrow face. His sharp nose was crooked and zinc-whitened, and a puka shell necklace circled a gullet starting to sag. The stubble on his chin was white as the zinc. Forty, maybe older.

“You were checking out that Starship Enterprise deal, right?” he said, eyeing the house on the sand. “Know who owns it?”

“Who?”

“Dave Dell.”

“The game-show host?”

“The game-show host and mega-gazillionaire – guy started out as an AM disc jockey, bought up Malibu land back when Lincoln was president, got himself a sweet chunk of bluff, man. He’s partnering with the dudes who’re doing that.” Cocking his head at the restaurant renovation. “Downtown dudes.”

“Nice investment,” I said.

“That’s what they live for – more and more and more. Borrowing someone else’s money.” He laughed. “Thing is, except for that house of his – Dell’s – all those humongoid things are on bluffs and most of them got no beach at all. They got their views to China, but they don’t have serious sand because of the way Paradise is shaped. Even the ones that do got some, and even at low tide, it ain’t much – little squares where you can sit and watch your money wash away. ’Cause the whole damn beach is disappearing.”

“Really?”

“You bet, man. Inches each year, maybe more – you never heard about it?”

“Sounds familiar,” I said. “Global warming or something. I wasn’t sure it was true.”

“Oh, it’s true all right. Global warming, El Niño, La Niña, La Cucaracha, the ozone layer, all that shit. One of these days, we’re go

He laughed again and shook his head. The yellow thatch was salt-stiff, and it didn’t vibrate. “Meanwhile, a bum like me’s got all this sand for free, and they got their little private patches of nothing – You actually pay twenty bucks to come down here? Didn’t Carleton tell you everything’s closed up?”

“He did, but I wanted to see it anyway.” I pointed down the coast. “Still beautiful.”

“Yeah.” Another grin. Sly. “You’re bullshitting me, man. Carleton don’t charge no one no more. He and the other trailer folk are pissed about what they done to the Dollar, and I can’t say I blame them, so they let anyone in free who wants to. Which isn’t too many.” He shrugged, and the puka necklace rattled. “Used to be, you couldn’t find a parking space and they were filming commercials all the time. Now it’s El Quieto, which is fine with me. Things change and then you die. Bye, man. Enjoy.”

As he walked away from me, I said, “I heard Tony Duke lives in one of those bluff houses.”

He stopped, turned. “Hell, yeah. It’s nothing but his type and Hollywood assholes up there.” He rubbed his chin, looked up into the sun. In the full light I saw a canker sore sprouting under his lower lip. Raw spots on his forehead glistened precancerously. “Duke’s place is about five properties down. I swam by a few times, seeing if I could maybe catch a look at some of those girls he keeps there. No luck.”

“Too bad.”

Snort. “Like I’d know what to do if I found something.”