So the point was, it could be strange here but it was at least eventful, and Chris didn’t answer but got to wondering for the umpteenth time -- not about these three people necessarily -- but in general, what everyone does down here to make enough money to live here.

  He didn’t have a handle on that. You of course had the USC alumni crowd occupying some of the houses in the hills, which you knew because on football game days they’d drape their cardinal and gold TROJAN banners off their balconies.

  Then you clearly had big money -- we’re probably talking billionaires -- who’d taken modest beach houses and converted them to mini Greco-Roman palaces replete with columns and fountains, which didn’t fit at all -- and the thing there being, these folks never seemed to be around. Meaning it was their third or fourth or fifth house.

  So fine. But the bread and butter Manhattan Beach folks, did they commute to high-end financial jobs in downtown LA . . . did they sit around at home in their slippers and miraculously make millions on the computer . . . were they trust fund babies . . .

  And who cares, why was he obsessed with this repeatedly? Dang.

  The misfit threesome took their argument across the street to the ice cream place and it was after 11 and Chris figured you call it a night, and Gee, he was a little stiff getting up, it must have been those flimsy folding chairs in Finch’s room . . . but he made it home okay.

  Nothing going on by the pool -- there were a couple of new tenants, Canadian guys, and they liked to play cards out there but not tonight, which Chris wouldn’t have minded joining in on, and the fact was he wouldn’t have minded some socialization period, since Ken had now made a clean break.

  What happened there, Monday in fact, the day after Mancuso informed Chris that Ken’s issue with the police had been resolved -- the kid shows up in the morning, all business.

  Chris wanted to ask him a few questions . . . starting with, Were you hiding out in Bolinas by chance, where I busted my tail like an idiot trying to find you, all based on a throwaway comment you made one time . . . but the timing didn’t seem appropriate and Ken simply gathered the few things he had left in the apartment and thanked Chris for the hospitality and told him he had a place now but would see him around.

  No big hug, not even a handshake . . . and Chris admittedly thought it was over the top the few times Ken did get emotional and thanked him for stuff . . . but now you kind of hoped for a little of that, and you got zip.

  And the fact was, Chris was pretty sure he didn’t want a roommate when he offered Ken the couch for a few nights back then until he got it together, but then Chris got used to it, and the kid did inject some life into the place, and now this week with the clean break, it was a little lonely around here. Chris was man enough to admit it.

  He got in the recliner and hunted around on YouTube, and he found one he liked with a guy who rode his 4-wheeler on the dirt roads near Area 51 and mounted a camera on the handlebars -- and what else was new, you try other documentaries and themes and subjects but you mostly bring it back to the high desert in southern Nevada.

  A storm was moving in on the guy and there was a bit of suspense, would he make it back on the 4-wheeler to his truck in time, and the Area 51 gate security people, which everyone called the ‘camo dudes’, were playing cat and mouse with him as well, and they were kind of scary, because they supposedly had the right to shoot you with no questions asked if you venture one inch over the barrier onto classified land, and the barrier extended up into the mountains but it wasn’t marked great, and you could picture some YouTube guy not paying attention, trying to get a good video capture, and venturing across it and getting shot.

  He never did quite catch the resolution -- did the guy dodge the storm okay, did the security guys stop him at all, did he capture any video of unusual aircraft out there . . . and meanwhile you obviously knew the guy didn’t get shot, because how would you be watching this video.

  So Chris dozed off before the conclusion, the laptop blaring away with the guy narrating . . . and he was in the perfect spot between slumber and deep sleep where everything was colorful and clear and simple, and (hopefully) pleasant dreams were brewing . . . and unfortunately the phone rang. And it was Ned.

  “Uh,” Chris said, blinking his eyes hard. “You kinda caught me.”

  “Take a minute,” Ned said.

  “I’m good now,” Chris said, and he was going to ask what’s up, but a big yawn took over.

  “Listen,” Ned said, “you mind giving me a hand with something?’

  “Now?” A dumb question probably, but you hoped Ned meant help him powerwash the sidewalk tomorrow outside the Strand house. That kind of something. Which seemed unlikely.

  Ned said, “Well yeah, next hour or so’d be good. If you can.”

  “Sure I guess, no problem,” Chris lied, and Ned said they could grab a bite first, since that’s what Chris usually wants to do.

  “Not urgent then, you’re saying,” Chris said.

  “Sort of that,” Ned said. “But actually waiting might be a little better.”

  This wasn’t making a lot of sense but Chris was alert enough where it didn’t seem like a good idea to ask too many specifics on the phone, and Ned said they could meet at The Kettle in twenty minutes.

  The Kettle wasn’t exactly a go-to spot for Chris -- it was a little pricey and he leaned toward the few ethnic dives you could find in the south bay, but The Kettle was an institution down here, family owned apparently since 1973, and the place had barely changed since day one, and that was worth a lot.

  Chris got there first and saw Ned out the window parking the SUV, and that was one good thing about getting dragged out of bed, or the recliner, at this ungodly hour . . . you could at least park.

  Chris checked his watch and it was 10 to 2.

  Ned came in and sat down, part of his all-smiles act on display, but not completely. He did give Chris a low five.

  “You want my honest opinion?” Chris said. “You look kind of fucked up. Not booze-wise, necessarily. Maybe it’s just the time of day. Your biological clock ticking down.”

  “You caught me,” Ned said, trying to smile, but again not pulling it off too well.

  “Well . . . you wanna order something first? And then break it to me why we’re gathered here? . . . Or reverse it?”

  “Order me a chef’s salad please,” Ned said. “I’ll be right back.”

  And the waiter came, middle-eastern fellow, darn pleasant demeanor for having to work the graveyard shift, and Chris was tempted to ask him his secret, but you didn’t want to go too far off topic.

  Ned came back. Chris wondered if he’d made a phone call pertaining to why they were here . . . and decided Jeez, stop assuming everything’s a big deal, and let the man take a simple leak.

  The food came and Ned looked around and lowered his voice. “I had to take care of Ralph,” he said.

  Chris had ordered the soup of the day and it was hot and he was blowing on it, and he froze, the spoon suspended in front of him.

  Ned nodded. Chris said, “Take care of . . . like his bar tab -- his return flight itinerary -- you found him a woman for the night . . . you scheduled a yoga class for him in the morning? . . . Any of that kind of taking care of?”

  “No.”

  Ho-ly Toledo. Everything seemed fine and dandy at Finch’s earlier. Didn’t it?

  You had to ask . . . the unfortunate question . . . “So where’s he at? Currently.”

  Ned looked around again and leaned forward. “In the back.” Using his head to point out the window of The Kettle to the white Chevy Tahoe across the street.

  Chris couldn’t help reacting to this one. If he wasn’t fully awake so far, he just got slapped.

  He tried to get his own good look inside the SUV, hoping that all this would boil down to was Ralph was sitting in the thing, that he wasn’t hungry. But from the looks of it, no one was sitting, or laying back, on a seat in there either.

  Ned picked up on Chris’s confusion, and said, “Tarp.”

  And he pushed what was left of his chef’s salad away -- which was all of it -- and lit a cigaret.

  Chris couldn’t think of anything to say, and he might not for a few minutes, so he figured you might as well at least stay busy -- while you were trying to wrap your head around this insane development -- and he finished his soup, and started in on Ned’s salad as well.

  Finally Ned said, looking around again first, “I’m not sure where to stick him . . . Thought you might have some input, regards to that.”

  Chris did have an idea actually, in fact it was shocking how clear-headed and effortlessly it came to him . . . especially with him being an innocent bystander in the matter and just now having this load dropped on him.

  “You would think,” he said to Ned, “someone would typically -- how do they put it? . . .”

  “Proceed with the end result in mind, you mean?” Ned said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You get that in the movies, at least,” Ned said.

  “Meaning . . . real life, it happens less predictably, you’re saying?”

  Ned nodded. “More spontaneous.”

  They were both looking around like a couple of idiots before they spoke, and Chris did it again. “So you what . . . like, sott the guy?” Leaving out the h, not wanting to use the actual word.

  “Wire,” Ned said. “Home Depot.”

  You didn’t need to nitpick here, even though you were admittedly curious -- was the spontaneous part that he stopped at Home Depot, Ralph waiting in the parking lot, and when Ned came back he threw something on the back seat and proceeded up and around Ralph’s neck?

  Or was it that Ned happened to have the roll of wire, a previous Home Depot purchase -- something unrelated to Ralph completely, maybe he had to tie back some fencing on the upper patio of the Strand house -- and the spontaneous part was he noticed the roll laying back there and decided maybe he should use it on Ralph instead.

  So the details really didn’t matter, the how and where. You still had the why.

  Chris said, “I must admit, when you told me a New York fellow was in town -- in conjunction with giving me the good news that Kenny’s okay -- and I raised an eyebrow . . . you said ‘we’ll figure it out’. Like it was no big deal, and don’t worry about it . . . Then you’re best buddies. In the Nest, and you bring him to the writing business -- where he was actually pretty good by the way, some thoughtful comments.”

  “He was,” Ned said. “But what can you do?”

  What Ned was leaving out, obviously now, was despite all the backslapping and frivolity and Ralph seeming like an okay guy -- that it wouldn’t have ended well, in Ned’s view.

  And Chris knew that included Ned looking out for his ass too, which you had to appreciate.

  Chris said quietly, “Now there’s going to be some serious fallout. No?”

  Ned said, equally quietly, “We already had that. That’s what’s laying in back.” Ned pointed to the SUV with his head again, and Chris had to admit the guy was right.

  They were so caught up that they almost walked out of there without paying and the poor middle-eastern guy waiter had to tap Chris on the shoulder by the front door, and Chris only had a fifty on him but it didn’t seem like a great idea to use a credit card, you never know, so he handed it to the guy and said thanks.

  Chris couldn’t help it when he got in the Tahoe, the first thing he did was take a whiff. And yeah, there was a blue tarp, starting in the way back and coming forward, a bit of a shape in there.

  “Not yet,” Ned said. “But so . . . where to, do you think? . . . Any ideas on that?”

  Chris said, “You know something, you’re normally pretty sure of yourself. Now you got me wondering, is that an act?”

  “I’m just saying,” Ned said, “two heads are better than one.”

  “This reminds me of something,” Chris said. “You ever watch those home shows, like This Old House?”

  “Used to. I liked it better when they stuck to Boston, before they branched out.”

  “Me too. Anyhow one of the show guys, he’s a contractor, he builds his own house, separate from the show. Guy writes a book about it . . . What I’m getting to, they get the foundation in, he’s ready to frame it -- guy has to go in the yellow pages and hunt for carpenters. Like any regular doofus.”

  “That would be surprising,” Ned said. “All his connections? Being in the middle of the trades and such.”

  “That’s you,” Chris said, “with this deal.”

  You could see Ned massaging it around, not just the concept, but trying to come up with something, and it was clear he couldn’t, or maybe just wasn’t thinking clearly the last couple hours, and fine.

  Chris said, “You know the old military installation? Down past Torrance?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They developed part of it, of course. But you have that back area. Not much doing there. Especially at whatever time we got presently.”

  “Quarter to three,” Ned said. “I think I know where you mean . . . they got the Panda Express in front? And that Big Men’s clothing place?”

  “Yeah . . . and honestly, sitting here may not be as favorable as doing something.”

  You could see Ned agreed with that, and he started her up, and made the left turn onto Manhattan Avenue and up the hill, and a little quick for Chris’s taste, and he glanced back to make sure the tarp was still doing the job.

  Chris did feel obligated to point out, “Giving you the thorough evaluation, though -- bottom of the ocean’d be better.”

  “It would. So would cuttin’ him up and dispersing him.”

  Ned was inferring obviously that those weren’t viable options tonight.

  “Short of those, then,” Chris said, not feeling 100 percent confident in this, now that they were acting on it. “I mean other people? Might have wanted Ralph . . . out of the way too? . . . Besides just you and me?”

  “Oh yeah, that part we’re decent,” Ned said, not elaborating . . . and Chris had learned by now that with the Ned Mancusos of the world, sometimes you just had to take their word for it and proceed.

  There was no traffic, just the early street cleaning trucks and a few middle of the night delivery vehicles, and that was good and bad, since there weren’t a lot of choices to pull over if a cop was so inclined, but Ned drove respectably the rest of the way, which was down past Polliwog Park under the 405 into Lawndale, then the right onto Prairie Avenue, a couple miles to the left onto Del Amo, and then you were in warehouse district that surprised you when it opened onto the strip mall with the Panda Express.

  There hadn’t been much else to talk about on the way, so they’d actually gotten on the subject of Panda Express, Chris mentioning that he’d tried this particular one a couple times and it was good, better than most. Ned said he thought they were all the same, being a franchise, and Chris said no, this place used less sugar, and Ned said he’d have to try it himself some time, that he didn’t like it either when Chinese restaurants over-sugared stuff for the white population.

  Now here you were, and you looped around the back, and yeah, son of a gun, this wasn’t bad. It felt a little like the remote parts of the Presidio of San Francisco . . . some beat up buildings with old paint flaking off them, some cement stuff in the ground that felt like the remnants of old bunkers, even a little marshy pond, though you wondered if that would be deep enough.

  Ned parked back there and shut off the engine and opened the tailgate and handed Chris a pair of gloves. “DNA,” he said, like he was delivering an earth-shattering discovery . . . and Chris would have said, “Tell me about it,” except Ned had the tarp off Ralph now, and the guy looked heavy.

  “Again,” Chris said, “if I could suggest, the end result first? Like you were saying?”

  “I was thinking the water,” Ned said. And yeah, that wouldn’t be the worst choice, even though Ralph probably wouldn’t drop below the surface.

  At least the water might mess with the DNA you likely both were going to put on him, despite the gloves -- and of course Ned with the previous neck work, even a greater chance of a deposit -- and they hauled Ralph out of there and stumbled around for the first ten yards until they got the right grips squared away . . . and there was the one, two, three swinging him business, and they let fly, and Ralph didn’t go far, but at least he was partially submerged and some mud kicked up and covered most of his head, and other areas . . . and what more could you do, really.

  Ned took the freeway back, leisurely, driving about 50. He said, “Well, that should work. You think? . . . And just for my own information -- how’d you come up with this place?”

  “Chandler. If you can believe it. He ever tell you the story about the CraigsList guy?”

  “Nope.” Chris wasn’t sure about that, Ned might be totally playing along, but apparently he wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

  Chris said, “I’m not dying to go into it, but it’s entertaining.”

  “By all means. What else we got going the rest of the night?”

  Chris said, “I may be a little off, but he’s selling a motorcycle. Which already surprises you.”

  “Oh big time. Didn’t know he had it in ‘em.”

  “No. He’s asking like 4 grand. Some guy offers him 3 and wants more information. Chandler -- we know how he can come across -- he asks the guy -- sorry, more information for what? Since your offer’s too low.”

  “I can see it,” Ned said.

  “Yeah. If he just altered his tone a little, he’s accomplishing the same thing, without unnecessarily ticking a guy off.”

  “Always a more diplomatic route,” Ned said. “Why pile on complications?”

  “There is. Bottom line, the guy slams down the phone . . . then starts up his own ad on CraigsList . . . except using the photo of Chandler’s motorcycle, and his seller info . . . and asking $500 for the thing.”

  “Ooh,” Ned said.

  “Exactly. So Chandler’s phone rings off the hook, and he may have gotten in trouble with CraigsList, I can’t remember -- but the crux of it is, he arranges to meet the guy and make the sale after all.”

 

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