More along the lines of: We got a problem.

  Chris still took that deep breath, and called him back.

  “Hey!” Ned said. “What’s shaking, man?”

  “You have a way,” Chris said, “of sneaking up on people, and brushing it off, while the other guy doesn’t extricate himself quite as quick.”

  “Not following you. Listen, you got a half hour?”

  “Okay you’re doing it again.”

  “Take it easy, we’re good,” Ned said.

  Chris said in that case he might fit it in, and they settled on the pizza place in Hermosa Beach.

  There was another message, and he could relax now and give it the attention it deserved . . . and son of a gun, this was Shep. So Chris called him back.

  “My brother,” Shep said, and you could hear glasses clinking and plenty of conversation, Weatherby’s busy enough for a Monday afternoon.

  “You got me nervous,” Chris said. “You never text.” Not Ned-quality nervous, but still.

  “All’s we have,” Shep said, “That tenant I found you? Well it didn’t take so great, the relationship.”

  “Ah.”

  “So I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of uh . . . well, I kind of took a page out of your book.”

  A beat. “I don’t want to ask what that means.”

  “Yeah. The roof business again . . . We came to the requisite meeting of the minds.”

  “Holy Smokes, I’m not believing this . . . Honestly, that place, the karma may not be there, Shep . . . Should we just hand it back to the landlord? I mean I probably won’t ever need it again.” Though you never did know.

  “Are you nuts?” Shep said. “With the upside we got? Do you know the median one-bedroom in the city now, is $3690.”

  Chris had seen that the other day, the New York Times picking up the story because it was so outrageous.

  “And they showed examples of that median version,” Shep said. “A basement dive off the Panhandle, and a worse dive in the Mission, where everything’s security screens. We got a gold mine here, believe me.”

  “If you say so,” Chris said, “totally up to you . . . Sorry for the hassle.”

  “Don’t mention it. Wasn’t the worst thing, throw a little tough love around up there. I’ll be honest, I seen where you’re coming from.” Shep said he had to go.

  Chris felt himself shaking his head at that conversation as he started up the new-used Chevy Malibu -- and there was admittedly a slight knock in the engine as he accelerated onto the 405, but he told himself think positive, and you need to get past worrying about a dumb car if you’re going to tackle the bigger problems.

  Had he been that transparent with Shep though? Jeez. What was that part where he saw where I was coming from? Sure, the list, way back in the beginning, that got some indirect mention, over a couple Anchor Steams, across the bar -- but had he really related dangling that guy off the roof?

  Or worse? Had someone seen him do it, and word got around the neighborhood, and back to Shep.

  Ooh boy . . .

  Ned was all smiles, had the corner table in back, same directional setup as in the Crow’s Nest.

  Chris sat down and said, “I don’t need to look at the menu. These days I either go with the whole combo pie, bring home what I can’t eat and have it for breakfast -- or go with the pepperoni calzone.”

  “See now calzones,” Ned said, “and are you any part Italian, or not, I may have asked you.”

  “I’ll have to go on Ancestry.com,” Chris said, “spit in a cup, I may surprise myself.” That was the wrong analogy, because it reminded him once again of the ill-fated DNA test and the hacker Mark, still waiting for it. Maybe.

  “What was I saying?” Ned said. “Calzones -- me being Italian doesn’t mean I eat ‘em.”

  “I’ll eat yours then.”

  “On a list of cheap eats . . . they’d be near the bottom. I don’t care that they originated in 18th century Naples. They’re too dry.”

  “What’s below ‘em?”

  “Huh?”

  “On your list.”

  “General Tso’s Chicken for one,” Ned said. “Do you know that stuff’s not even Chinese?”

  They ordered and Chris said, “Not to insult anyone, and I’m sure he’s a friend of yours, but I hope the owner doesn’t come over.”

  “Oh that guy. He’s a pain in the ass,” Ned said. And it was good they were on the same page, the owner a friendly enough fellow, a trace of a Brooklyn accent so you knew the food was authentic, but he loved to stroll table to table and talk . . . and if he got it dialed in at your table on a given night, forget it. Kind of amusing that Ned agreed, since Ned wasn’t typically bothered by that kind of stuff, meaning he must have had a bad experience with the guy.

  “What I wanted to go over,” Ned said, “is the writing assignment. I’m trying to come up with final scene, like Finch wants, but I’m hitting myself over the head. I’ve worked around like 5 of them, and one’s more stupid than the last.”

  “Whew,” Chris said. “Now I can complete that deep breath, no strings attached. Who would think, you needed me because of your novel.”

  “Let’s not be a comedian, okay?”

  “I’m serious. You’ve got one in you. You know it too, otherwise you don’t show up the other night at Finch’s.”

  “Well what’s yours?” Ned said.

  “You know what? I haven’t given it a thought. I’ll start working on it about 6:15 Friday night . . . Rosie okay with hers?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s got a good one. Takes place in Louisiana, her character’s climatic moment anyway. Healthy imagination on that girl.”

  “You guys making it then . . . or what?”

  “Us? Nah. She’s got her thing going, whatever. And Chandler’s trying to get her into UCLA. Not the real thing, but the extension part. Starting with summer session.”

  Of course it was Chris who suggested that, but no point butting in now . . . and of course Ned’s answer, what was going on otherwise, that was a little shaky.

  Chris said, “Forget UCLA maybe. She produces that novel, Finch with his screenwriting connections . . . who knows.”

  “I agree,” Ned said. “Be honest, I was thinking that direction myself. For me. But I’m friggen blocked.”

  “Email it to me,” Chris said, “I’ll give you the cold-blooded evaluation.”

  “Which ending?”

  “Your top two. Don’t murder me with all 5.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “If I could make a suggestion?” Chris said.

  “Go for it.”

  “Well I liked your start. A lot of detail, you bring the international element into it, the guy seeking out his roots back in Czechoslovakia, the whole bit disguised as a vehicle to get to know the Pan Am check-in gal.”

  “Pan Am’s not around anymore. They’ve been gone a while.”

  “Whatever. My point is, it’s real so far. Keep it that way.”

  You could tell Ned was thinking about those 5 endings, and his face was scrunched up.

  Chris said, “Like Chili Palmer in Get Shorty. I’m not saying you gotta portray the main character as a wise guy or something . . . but use that set-up as an example how to keep it real.”

  Ned said, “That was Travolta, at least the first one. I would have gone with a young Mickey Rourke.”

  “Doesn’t matter. What I’m saying, the guy comes out here, knows nothing about the movie business, ends up dominating the action, hobnobbing with the Beverly Hills crowd.”

  “More like Calabasas. That’s where the Kardashians are now. Johnny Depp, Jennifer Lawrence. That group.”

  “You’re pissing me off.”

  “Nah, I get your point. Write what you know.”

  “More than that . . . give your guy an edge that he doesn’t lose. Capiche? Or do I have to call the owner over, ask him how his week’s been going.”

  Ned said that wouldn’t be necessary, and they finished up and crossed the street to the long block that they malled-off, meaning only foot traffic permitted -- some benches staggered around, outdoor restaurants spilling into the middle of the action, the Hermosa Pier at the end.

  There was a street musician performing for tips and he wasn’t bad, he used recorded back up and sang high, and pretty sweet, kind of a modern take on doo-wop, and Chris and Ned grabbed a seat and listened.

  Ned said, “I see what you’re saying. My character. He has to sustain it. His act.”

  “Yeah,” Chris said, “now mind you, and I’ve seen it in some of the Donald Westlake books as well, that a minor character could present themself better than you expected.”

  “So don’t get locked in, you’re telling me then.”

  “No, do get locked in to your main dude -- I mean that final scene you’re trying to come up with, it should be all about him, shouldn’t it? . . . His trials and tribulations having aired themselves out, in the scene before, and now you’re leaving the reader off, based on that resolution.”

  “You’re bullshitting me. If you try repeating what you just said, it’ll come out different.”

  “Fair enough,” Chris said. “But the minor character thing -- don’t fight it if it pops up, is all.”

  “What would be an example, give me something.”

  “Well . . . say you got this guy, he thinks his wife’s cheating on him. Not presently necessarily, but two years ago there was a party, and the wife and the other guy happen to disappear for a while.”

  Ned said, “Where do they live, these people?”

  “Come on, who cares? So the husband, he can’t get it out of his system, they’re shopping on Christmas Eve, he sees something that reminds him of the wife’s infidelity, triggers him bringing it up.”

  “What’d he see?”

  “How do I know, what difference does it make? Stop being so literal here . . . the bigger picture, Christmas comes and goes but the guy can’t take it, he finally gets up the gumption to confront the other dude.”

  “The wife know about this?”

  “Not sure. The point being, he does find the guy and confront him, the guy comes clean, doesn’t deny it . . . even throws in that he envies this first guy for having a lovely wife.”

  “It would never happen that way,” Ned said.

  Chris said, “Fine. Don’t write yours that way. But you ask me for an example . . . In this one, these two guys become friends. Little stiff at first, and eventually they go on a fishing trip together. Bond pretty good. The cheater guy ends up becoming more interesting to the readers than the wife. So the writer -- he lets the guy go, gives him free rein. Not letting him steal the show, of course, from the main guy. But right up there.”

  “That’s not too bad,” Ned said. “What book is that from?”

  “No real book. I made it up, just to address your question.” Though Chris was starting to think maybe I didn’t make it up, that I saw it unfold on one of those Lifetime made for TV movies.

  They listened to the modern d0o-wop guy a while longer, threw him a few bucks, and headed down the block to the pier.

  Chris said, “So I hate to bring this up, perfect weather and all. I mean they couldn’t design it better for April.”

  “You got that right,” Ned said, playfully punching Chris on the arm. “It took you 6 months to figure it out?”

  “Why we live here you mean.”

  “Unh-huh. We got the system beat. Mostly.”

  “Yeah well. I see they still got snow up the wazoo in Buffalo.”

  “Montreal even worse,” Ned said, “and how about Nebraska? Flooding out of their backside there, and it’s not even tornado season yet.”

  “Just getting warmed up.”

  “Yep,” Ned said. “So no need to bring up, what you don’t want to bring up.”

  “And I wouldn’t ordinarily,” Chris said. “Except what’s next? What do we got?”

  “Beats me,” Ned said. “Few minutes more, I’ll probably take a right, head back to the house. How about you? You still hit tennis balls with Chandler?” They were in fact crossing the Strand now, which would put Ned right back at the house, and meanwhile some intense 2-man volleyball was happening on the beach in front of them, mixed doubles this time.

  “Do they work the woman, typically?” Chris said. “I never thought about that. That’s what they try to do in mixed doubles tennis.”

  “Not as simple,” Ned said, “because you only get the three hits. By rule.”

  They watched for a while and a couple of the players varied the serves with old-fashioned underhand jobs, except they were hitting moonballs, way up there, and you could tell when they came down they weren’t the easiest things to defend.

  Chris said, “So what it is, we’re dancing around the concept . . . Aren’t we?”

  Ned took a minute. “Ralph-wise, you mean?”

  “That’s part of it. But you know what I mean. Which is why we both keep changing the subject.”

  Ned took some more time. He said, “Chrissie, you’re a good man. You’ve proven it. I’d like to tell you I’m not going to forget it . . . Except I mixed you up in this.”

  Chris took a second himself. “Not the point, either way. What I’m thinking -- I make a return visit to New York.”

  Ned laughed, but it was more of a bad exhale than anything comical. He lowered his voice, even though it wasn’t necessary out here, and his tone was dead serious for the first time today. “And accomplish what, exactly.”

  “I don’t know,” Chris said. “Just like, sweep out the bullshit. So we don’t have to entertain another Ralph.”

  Ned smiled, but it was thin. “At least not before July or August, you’re saying?”

  “Something like that. More like, keep it simple, let them know two can play the game.”

  Ned focused on the volleyball again, turned back to Chris. “You should put this stuff in your book,” he said.

  “I thought of it,” Chris said. “No one would believe mine though . . . How about yours?”

  “So you’re saying,” Ned said, “the Czech guy, the reader already has to suspend belief? First chapter?”

  “I think it’s suspend dis-belief, but no. They’re with you. Up to a point. So long as you don’t go off the deep end.”

  “Keep it real, you’re saying, and the cream rises to the top?”

  “Who do I see back there?” Chris said.

  Chapter 8

  Sigma Beach Middle School had a dedicated area in front, a circular patch off the parking lot with a flag pole and some tasteful flowers, and a plaque sitting flush in a manicured bit of grass.

  Chris’s first thought, getting out of the car, was oh no, there’d been act of violence here . . . and he prayed first of all they weren’t commemorating a school shooting he hadn’t been aware of -- and that secondly they weren’t honoring a law enforcement officer who lost his life here.

  That would be unlikely, but he’d seen a similar designation someplace, he couldn’t remember where, where a fallen officer was being remembered on the unfortunate spot where it happened.

  Fortunately he read the plaque and it was neither of those things. The school in 2017 had renamed itself LJ Crank Middle School, after its beloved late-custodian, who on a daily basis exceeded the limits of his job description by leaps and bounds, it said.

  It mentioned the guy’s Alabama roots, being the grandson of slaves, and various hardships he endured, including polio as a child, and he recovered enough to play sports but was prohibited from playing on teams because of segregation -- and it was a feel-good story, with LJ honored by one of the wealthiest school districts in the state.

  At that would been all good . . . except Chris noticed the lettering on the school itself still read Sigma Beach MS . . . so you sure hoped there was some justified logistical delay in getting the guy’s name up there, and that they weren’t honoring him in ceremony only but not where it counted.

  There were two women in the office, one at a high counter and one at a desk, and Chris figured try the simple way first, and he said, “Good morning ladies. I’m here to see principal Haller please?”

  The desk one looked younger and more naive and started to pick up the phone to call Haller (Chris had taken the time to look up the idiot’s name) but the counter one was more savvy and asked him if he had an appointment -- and what this was about.

  He was tempted to throw out a name and pass himself off as a parent, like “Sure. I’m Bill Wheeler, it’s about my daughter Melissa” and that would have probably worked too with the desk gal, but not with the counter one, whose brow was starting to furrow more -- and it occurred to Chris for a moment, Holy Smokes, could she actually call the police, reporting a suspicious character?

  So no, that was a bad plan, and you better adjust pretty quick, and thinking on the fly he said, “I’m the guy from the ACLPF commission? I spoke to Principal Haller in the past. On the issues with the plaque?”

  “What about the plaque,” the counter gal said.

  “There’s some news on that,” Chris said, “and we’re taking some heat from the media. It’s easier -- and frankly more appropriate -- that I speak to him directly. It’ll only take a few minutes, and then I can report back to the attorney.”

  This time the counter gal walked around the corner, no buzzing someone on the phone, and a minute later came back with a fit-looking middle-aged guy in a snazzy blazer, who did look to have a bit of a hair weave, along with perfectly whitened teeth.

  The guy extended his hand. “Phil,” he said.

  “Bill,” Chris said, and that sounded kind of lame, he should have avoided the rhyming business but too late now.

  Chris pointed with his head back to where Haller had come from, and it took a second for the principal to understand, and then he said, sure of course, and after you please.

  Chris took a seat in there and the guy closed the door, and Chris said, “Where are we at with this? I’m all about a bottom line, and I’m busy, and I’m more than a little ticked off they sent me out here.”

  “I’m sorry?” Phil said.

 

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