San Diego Noir

Since Greg’s ninth grade year, when Olivia was in seventh, he would’ve quit surfing or anything else to please her, if she’d asked. But she never even hinted. After high school, she moved to Vegas, pranced onstage in a feathered costume, and met Maurice, an older guy whose smooth talk and fists full of cash she fell for, Greg supposed.

Every summer, he saw her at the beach with her kids. The last time was two or three Saturdays ago. He sat with her awhile, thinking he might not see her again. But he didn’t tell her about his disease. She didn’t need any problems of his.

A few times, Greg had invited Olivia to the One Way Inn to watch his favorite Christian musicians. She would pat his hand or arm and say, “Not this time.” He knew what she meant was I’ll go when Jesus shows up at my door and drags me kicking and screaming.

And now, with her and Maurice separated and him awaiting trial for conspiring with his Vegas connections to take over the action of an Indian casino, some Beverly Hills sharks were going to snatch her home in exchange for their fees. Banish Olivia and her kids to a roach-infested welfare apartment next door to the one where his death would send Barb and Chez.

On a sudden impulse, he stood too fast, got woozy, but managed to stagger to the hall cabinet next to Chez’s bedroom door. One of his girls made breathy whistles in her sleep. He tiptoed and pulled the door closed, taking pains to latch it quietly even though he saw double knobs.

He went to the dining nook for a chair and returned to the hallway. Twice he started to mount the chair but wobbled. The third attempt succeeded because he grasped the cabinet handles in time.

When he opened the cabinet, he bonked his forehead with the door’s sharp corner, drawing a little blood but not enough to dribble into his eye. The object of this expedition, his high school annuals, were in the back of the cabinet. He had to move things, a pewter vase and picture frames, and the shoe box sealed with duct tape in which he had stashed his .25-caliber six-shot revolver. The maker, he suspected, was German, something like Plfstk he couldn’t pronounce. He’d bought it at a pawnshop and used to carry it on risky assignments, back when he was a security guard.

He climbed off the chair, balancing with one hand, all of his high school annuals tucked beneath the other arm, though only his senior year would have photos of Olivia. He must’ve left the shoe box teetering on the edge of the cabinet. As he stepped down, it fell, grazed his shoulder, made a bong sound as it hit the chair, and landed on the floor with a sharp thud. Ouch, Greg thought, and waited for Barb to shout, Hey, be quiet!

But if the crash had woken her, she ignored the disruption. He picked up the shoe box, set it on the chair, and went to the dining nook table. He opened his senior yearbook, turned one page, and found the first picture of Olivia, above the caption Most Popular. She wore a pleated skirt, an inch or so above the knees, and a purple short-sleeved sweater Greg remembered he’d always wanted to rub his nose in. She was made up heavy like the Portuguese babes from tuna fishing families. Like Angie Silva.

Olivia’s dark lipstick looked especially exotic haloed by her wavy golden hair. But gorgeous as she was, what set her above the other beauties was her goodness. She wasn’t shy or proud, but natural and gracious. Loyal to her friends, pleasant to everyone. She earned good grades without showing off. Greg remembered a girl saying, Olivia can afford to be sweet, cause she’s got nothing to prove.

“Phooey,” Greg mumbled, and turned the page. “Everybody’s got stuff to prove.” He found six more pictures of Olivia. The booster club, the French club. “French, huh?” Something else he’d forgotten. Maybe French classes had helped prime her to choose a guy with that name.

“Maurice,” he snarled.

Then he found Olivia in candid shots at a football playoff game and at dances. He caught nostalgia dragging his thoughts back toward his incipient death, which he chose to call it ever since Doctor Ramos used that bookish word that made it feel less real. He craved a smoke. He kept his stash of sinsemilla and papers in a top kitchen cabinet beside Mazola oil, Raid, and other items Barb considered dangerous.

He sat at the table and rolled a fat number. Before he lit up, he realized that after smoking he was likely to forget or blow off returning the annuals and his stash to where they belonged. He set the joint on the table, tossed the baggy into its cabinet, stacked the annuals, and carried them through the living room. As he lifted his right foot onto the chair, he noticed the shoe box beside his left foot and felt a mild electric warmth. A power surge.

He managed to replace the annuals without dropping anything, and when he closed the cabinet doors, they didn’t bang.