EIGHT
RIDE THE WILD SURF
Kendall stared at the security panel in the closet which was the size of a small bedroom and lined with cedar. Several coats and jackets hung on wooden hangers, and there were dozens of neatly stacked shoe boxes.
The panel was a two-foot square filled with rows of toggle switches, each painstakingly labeled by one of those handheld printers which embossed your message on a plastic tape. FBW #1. Front basement window number one. There were seven large basement window basins, each presumably equipped with a man trap. A faded, hand-drawn map showed a crude schematic of the house and the windows’ locations. The legal threat was existential. From the look of the panel, no one had touched it in years. Cobwebs clung to the frame. Spider webs stretched from the toggles, some still holding desiccated insects. A pearly moth glinted in the sun from the skylight. Kendall looked up. The square skylight, matching the shape of the room, had an interlocking rhomboid design and was tinted pale yellow and green.
A box of circuit breakers clung to the wall next to the security system. Each was labeled with plastic tape, all switched to the ON position except for the switch labeled SECURITY. Were the traps spring-powered? Pneumatic? Not that it mattered. Kendall had no intention of activating them. He was surprised the house didn’t have something more modern, but that could wait.
Kendall did not look forward to returning to Pasadena. The drawing board waited. The studio waited. He had to get those storyboards in by Monday, or he was royally fucked. He walked through his fantastic house touching the furnishings and the otherworldly stonework. He felt like a character in one of Phillip Jose Farmer’s novels. Kickaha in the Overlords’ Palace. Just being in the house was a high.
In the bedroom, he looked at the ring bolts inserted in the head and footboards. They bothered him. In the kitchen, he tried the basement door. He would need a crowbar to open it. He glanced at his watch. If he headed back now, he would spend ninety minutes sitting in traffic. He hated that about Los Angeles: the constant press of humanity from every side, the smog a constant reminder of the hectic pace, and crowded conditions. How awful to be poor in Los Angeles—more so than any other city—because everywhere you looked were reminders of luxury, wealth, success. Ferraris and Bentleys on the freeways. The enormous billboards showing impossibly young, beautiful, and wealthy movie stars. The evening news obsessed with the weekend box office.
The check-cashing, pawn shops, and instant money stores were always close. Kendall had seen lines of people outside plasma centers. Tweakers, HIV carriers, junkies, veterans, bums. Who would knowingly use their blood?
There was a constant threat of theft and even death. You had to protect what you had, or some animal would take it away. Hence the gated communities, the elaborate security systems, the private security services. Los Angeles was a steaming cauldron of unchecked desire. Unchecked desire and ruthlessness were the prerequisites of success.
Kendall had never been ruthless. Maybe that was his problem. Maybe he didn’t want it bad enough. Now that he was out here, he wanted it more than ever. But was he ready to kill and eat his own mother for it?
Relax, kid. You’re an artist. A good one. You’ll always have plenty of work.
He went into the library and looked at the books. He pulled biographies of Bette Davis and Humphrey Bogart. Kendall loved biographies. The books smelled deliciously old. He sat in the vintage leather La-Z-Boy and opened the Davis. He was halfway through the book when he realized the light was fading. It was eight thirty. Time to hit the road. Tucking the two books under his arm, he did a final walk-through, making sure the doors and windows were locked.
Locking the front door, he swung the metal gates shut but left the padlock off. He went down the steep steps to the sidewalk. The white garage door caught his eye. No rush. He was used to working through the night, particularly toward the end of his marriage when being with Shirley was like watching someone die.
He removed his newly encumbered key chain and found the garage key, labeled with embossed tape. He unlocked the door and wheeled it into the ceiling with a shriek. Inside he turned on the lights, fluorescents in aluminum shrouds marching back under the hill in ranks of two. He walked by the old Corvette. He hoped he had enough money after paying the mortgage to get it running.
Several olive-painted six-foot steel cabinets lined the wall on the right. He opened one. Row after row of old film in wheel-shaped aluminum containers like a chewing tobacco warehouse. He pulled one out. Harry and the Hendersons was written on the lid in black marker. Good wholesome family fun, essential homework for a Wyrick producer.
He put it back and shut the door. Past the cabinets was a large bulletin board on which the previous owner had tacked a Maxim calendar, pictures of cars and babes, a few articles from Variety and Billboard. “GRAD SCHOOL CERTAIN TO PLEASE/Although there are a few dissonant moments . . . ”
From the since defunct Los Angeles Argus Leader: “MADWIRE MEDIA BREAKS GROUND ON NEW HQ/Scene of notorious crime.”
Kendall headed back, back under the hill. A wooden workbench occupied the back wall. Above on pegboards was an immaculate display of tools. A band saw stood to the side. There was a metal-working lathe. There were three doors on the right. The one at the very rear led into the basement. The one next to it held a half bath. The third was a closet.
Kendall opened the door and stared. The Silver Surfer by Stanley Mouse. On a surfboard.