Down Solo by Earl Javorsky Page B

condition?”
    “There’s no answer to that, except that we’ve seen it before.”
    “There are others?”
    “Yes, Charlie Miner. You’re looking at one.”
    There’s nothing left to say.
    I look up as Daniel nods toward the passing carnival. A pair of female body builders approaches, hard round breasts pushing against identical British-flag bikini tops. One of them is carrying a Chihuahua, taut and wiry, against her muscular tan body.
    I shake my head after the women pass. “You know what they say about making love to a gorilla?”
    “What’s dat?” Now he’s back to doing the Rasta thing.
    “You’re not through until the gorilla’s through.”
    Daniel grins and says, “Dat’s what dey say about heroin.”
    “Yeah, it’s like that too.”

16
    Tanya’s phone chirps in my pocket. I don’t recognize the number, but then why should I? I flip it open anyway and Tanya screams at me. I’m walking up Brooks, back to my car, listening to her rant about stealing her car and how dare I fuck her and run after she got me out of jail. I wait until she runs out of steam and say, “Sounds like you finally got a good night’s sleep, sweetheart.”
    “Don’t you sweetheart me, asshole. I’m calling the cops.”
    “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you tell me exactly where this Jason Hamel lives so I can try and get my daughter back that he KIDNAPPED AFTER BURNING DOWN MY FUCKING HOUSE?” I’m screaming now, and people are stopped on the sidewalk and staring at me.
    A big tourist in an “I Love Venice Beach” tee shirt says, “Hey fella, watch your language.” He’s shielding his wife and two little kids as if I’m a hyena loose from the zoo. I keep walking.
    “He what?” Tanya sputters. I repeat myself, quietly this time. Save the rage. Focus.
    “That’s crazy, Charlie, he’s not like that at all.”
    I tell her Cal’s version of the fire and about the phone call.
    “He called you a bitch? He must have gone completely insane. What are you going to do?”
    “As soon as you tell me where he lives, I’m going to track his sorry ass down and make this right.” Now there’s a plan to admire, but I do have at least one useful tool on my side. Like I’m not afraid of guns.
    “Charlie . . .”
    “I don’t want to hear it.”
    “I need my car. And my phone. And I’m sorry.”
    I tell her where the BMW is, keys under the seat. Can’t help her with the phone, I’m on a mission. She gives me an address: 2412 East Rustic Road in Santa Monica Canyon.
    She’s sorry.

    ¤ ¤ ¤

    What’s really sorry is the condition of the Z, with its front end all mashed in and the hood buckled. And the parking ticket. But who gives a shit at this point?
    I buckle up and take off, turning north on Main. Rustic Canyon is a neighborhood embedded in Santa Monica Canyon, a funky-rich world of its own between the beach and Sunset Boulevard.
    My phone barks. My ex-wife. I’m not in the mood, but she might have heard from Mindy. I flip the phone open.
    “You fucking prick! I call your home line, your office line, your fucking cell phone, Mindy’s cell, and nobody has the courtesy to fucking pick up?” She’s snarling at me. I should be used to it but I’m not. It’s why I left. It’s why Mindy had to leave. Sober, Allison is cold and sharp and keeps her acid voice level. I prefer her drunk.
    “I thought she was with you.” Truth, the first casualty of war, and the white flag is in shreds. I hang up.
    Tanya’s phone rings. I’m heading down the California Incline toward the Pacific Coast Highway. Caller ID says “Alan Hunter.” Might be an interesting conversation, but now’s not the time.
    A right on Entrada gets me into the Canyon. A few twists and turns and I’m on East Rustic, which dead-ends at 2412. A jungle of sycamore and ivy, out of control Korean boxwood hedge competing with bougainvillea, an open gate and a long curving driveway.
    I take the Z slow up the bumpy driveway, crunching gravel. I