Caution

By Terrence E. Dunn

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 14, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462813322

Terrence E. Dunn

Terrence E. Dunn lives in Santa Monica, CA. La Chute is the second novel in his Los Angeles Trilogy.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I was sitting at the edge of the Santa Monica cliffs on my bike, a dark green beach cruiser that had begun to rust. The sun was hanging high in the afternoon sky, its reflection boiled down on the Pacific. I rubbed my eyes and turned my head left, trying not to get blinded by either. My shadow was stretched out on the asphalt path behind me. My head seemed to be sliced in half diagonally right where the path met the grass from the park.

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

I looked back to my right and almost fell off my bike. An older lady had appeared out of nowhere. She was about the age of my mom, if my mom had been alive, about fifty-five or sixty, and she was standing there holding onto the cement railing. I didn’t know what to say or do. A few moments before I’d had the feeling that I’d been followed. I’d just ridden my bike from work; the lady was too old to have kept up. And besides, why would she have?

My heart was thumping in my ears and the Cold or Flu that had been lingering around me was putting my nerves on edge. I gave the lady a smile and she returned it immediately with a set of white, capped teeth. She had on a pair of big square sunglasses and an outfit of all white: a long, pleated white skirt, a collared white tennis shirt, and a short white cardigan sweater, unbuttoned with the sleeves pulled up.

Yeah . . . I guess, I finally mumbled. Older ladies seemed to always want to talk to me. They thought I was cute. Not handsome or anything. I’d be the first to admit that—what with my patchy beard and balding head. But cute, maybe even cuddly and strong, a small next door neighbor type of guy, someone that you’d want to put your arms around and squeeze hello to every morning. Not that I’d let them, of course.

She grabbed my forearm, but I yanked it away without really realizing what I was doing. You guess . . . ? Are you kidding? she asked me out of the corner of her eyes, Look down at that ocean, the way the sun’s shining all over it, making it sparkley and shiny.

Yeah . . . Yes, I answered back, this time speaking somewhat clearly, I guess you’re right. She started rambling then, this time about the mountains up around Pacific Palisades and Malibu, and the way that the haze and fog along the coast made the mountains, bleed right into the sky and ocean both at once.

But I wasn’t really listening to her. I wasn’t being rude or anything. I just wasn’t feeling that good and I’d just gotten some bad news at work. I looked back over my shoulder again, but still only saw the homeless and older couples who always roamed the park. It must have been my Cold, or maybe the news from work; because there was no reason that I knew for anyone to be following me.

So why did I keep looking?

I leaned up against the cement railing and peered looked down at the edge of the water to check out the surf. Only a few ripples were showing. Maybe knee-high surf up at Topanga or Zuma if you were lucky—but that hadn’t been me, lucky. There I was, I had the whole day off from work, the afternoon and evening, and it was flat and I was sick.

I took my backpack off and got my binoculars out. I wiped the sweat off of my forehead, feeling my pasty skin, and took my glasses off. There was nobody out in the water up at Sunset, a point just north of Santa Monica. Not a good sign, I figured. I tried to focus in on Topanga, a farther point, but the haze was too strong and I couldn’t see a thing. I put the binocs down and slipped my glasses back on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the lady edging in closer to me.

Um . . . she started to say, but then I just handed the binocs over to her and gave her another smile. Thanks, just for moment, she added as she glanced at my watch on my right arm, You’re left-handed, aren’t you? She wheeled around, not waiting for an answer, and started looking up and down the coast before trying to focus in on any one spot.

I glanced at my cheap surfer’s watch without even noticing the time and instead stared at its faded blue velcro band which I kept strapped around my arm twenty-four hours a day, in and out of the shower, in and out of bed. My heart, I noticed, finally started to calm down. I looked straight down in front of me. The asphalt path that we were standing on continued on the other side of the railing. It went out about five feet and then ended with a jagged edge right where the earthquake had ripped it apart a few years back. It was now a sheer drop down onto the Pacific Coast Highway, PCH. A few weeds were sticking up through the cracks in the asphalt and there were two dog dishes, both old and dirty and half filled with water, near the edge of the cliff. I felt a slight sea breeze hit my face; I could smell the salt water mixed within it. Off in the distance, over the sound of the traffic on PCH, I could hear the ocean, very faint-like.

Past the cliff, I saw Santa Monica beach. Somewhere I’d read that it was the widest stretch of white sand beach in the United States. People write the strangest things at times. Down the middle of the sand there was a long winding cement bike path. There were only about a dozen or so bikers and rollerbladers flying along it—which was unusual for a hot Thursday afternoon in late August. It was probably because of the murders.

To our left, about a mile or so down the beach, was the Santa Monica pier and the amusement park that sat on top of it. That had to have been packed. Nothing seemed to ever scare the tourists away from there.

I started daydreaming about riding around down on the bike path. I could see myself, the sun on my face, a little sea breeze hitting me, a few rollerbladers in short-shorts going by. Maybe I’d head down to Venice, check out the zoo of people, maybe get a pizza and fries from a french fry shack.

There’s a lot of trash down there.

I looked over at the lady. She was about a head shorter than me, which is saying a lot. I’m five foot six on a good day. She was looking straight ahead this time, probably focusing in on the french fry shack that was right down below us on the other side of PCH.

I sneezed once and turned my head left, trying to stop another sneeze from coming. I noticed a man, a short man, with dirty jeans and a long white t-shirt walking quickly up the dirt path that came up the side of the cliff to my left. The man was almost clean shaven, with balding, short blonde hair, and he had a black back pack over his right shoulder which looked heavy and bothersome. He might have been Homeless, or he might not have been; he fell into that range in between, with the somewhat dirty clothes, the loaded-down backpack, and the shuffled, suspicious walk it was too hard to tell. I watched his short body make its way up the path and had the strangest feeling that he’d been the one following me. But he’d come from the wrong direction, from the beach.

When he got to the top of the path, which was only a couple of feet from me, he keep his head down and walked away quickly, heading through the park. I started feeling nervous again. Sweat was running down my chest and the sides of my face; the drops were lacing their way through my patchy beard.

I looked where the man had come from. The path continued down the cliff until it connected with a street called The California Incline, which was a road that sliced down the cliff from the opposite direction of the path and ran into PCH. A number of cars were down there, but no people—neither on PCH, the Incline, nor on the two walkway bridges that hopscotched over both of the roads and lead you to the beach.

I said, ‘There’s a lot of trash down there.’

Sorry . . . Yeah, I finally answered. It’s kinda’ all over the place.

I think that’s what you call a Boogie Board down there, the lady said as she pointed down to where the two walkway bridges met. I squinted down towards a patch of grass that was below a small stairway that connnected the two bridges. I couldn’t make out anything, but it didn’t surprise me. An old Boogie Board, half a surfboard, pairs of scissors, dog dishes, pants, shirts, cups, saucers, not to mention your everyday ordinary trash like empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, crunched up napkins from the french fry shack—nothing surprised me in LA.

All this beauty, the lady said as she and waved her small arm in front of me and over to the right, up towards Malibu and the rest of the coast, and people go and wreck it, just like that.

I looked at the dog dishes at the edge of the cliff. Then, right then and there, for some unknown reason, I felt like jumping off my bike, climbing over the cement railing, taking two big steps up to the edge of the cliff, and doing a swan dive straight down onto PCH.

I thought the waves were supposed to be big in the Pacific? Where I’m from, Manhattan, New York, the waves at the beaches near there are small, usually no higher than my knees. But I’ve always heard that out there in California—.

Tomorrow it’ll still be flat, I said, interrupting her.

Excuse me?

But by tomorrow night a bit of a pulse will show, then by Saturday it’ll be huge.

You’re talking about the waves, right? You’re a surfer, correct?

I smiled again. Her faced seemed to blush. All a person had to do was look at my bleached-out eyebrows, my bleached-out, patchy beard, the crows feet around my blue eyes, and the constant tan and/or burn on my forehead and nose. It was a dead give away.

Actually, I’m a Video Transfer Technician.

But you surf, right?

Yeah, usually before work.

I always thought surfers’ were taller?

Low center of gravity, I answered. It helps you stay balanced on the waves.

oh, but—.

You see, I said, interrupting her, the quicker you can get to your feet, the better. So if your legs are shorter, you can get up quicker.

I don’t think she believed me. Her face looked a little puzzled. But I continued on with my rambling, just to amuze her, You see, there’s a small depression off of El Salavador right now. By tomorrow it’ll be a hurricane. By tomorrow night it’ll have grown and moved northwest, spinning away from the land and the Equator, heading right south of us. By Saturday morning it’ll be right in the window. The waves will be massive.

Now it was the lady’s turn to smile at me. I don’t think she knew what I was talking about, but that was okay. She seemed to have enjoyed my explanation.

Something caught my eye again and I looked past the lady and saw a couple of Homeless. They were wrapped in rags and filthy. One of them, a guy I’d seen a good number of times in the neighborhood, was wearing a long, dirty, purple skirt. On his head he wore an old leather hat with wide brims that flapped over his ears. On his feet he wore newspapers wrapped in twine, and as a final touch, he wore a black tuxedo vest with no shirt underneath. I could see his dirty skin and small black chest hairs from where I was sitting.

I thought about the short blonde man with the white t-shirt and backpack once again, and a queezey feeling crept up inside me. I tried my hardest to brush the thoughts and feelings away, but couldn’t.

The lady looked over her shoulders once, and then twice, and then swirled her arm back out towards the ocean again. All this beauty, she said again as she moved her face over towards me and then stared at me in the eyes and whispered, and then there’s ugliness right beside it.

Ah, I started to say, but she interrupted me.

Take that, she said as she pointed up towards Malibu again, That’s incredible. And then she turned around and pointed towards the neighborhood of Santa Monica. That’s beauty too.

I looked up Montana Avenue. I could see a couple of small two and three story apartment buildings near us, but I knew that behind them there were streets and streets of big, multi million dollar houses.

Only Actors, Producers, and big-shot Lawyers could afford to live there. Yeah, I said.

But look at the trash, the Homeless, and all the houses that get robbed right here in Santa Monica, she whispered, not to mention the murders.

My face must have changed. She grabbed my right forearm, squeezing it right near my watch. I lowered my eyes.

You didn’t know one of them, did you?

What could I say? Yeah, that I knew one of them? The one that got shot the night before? I hesitated, then muttered, Yeah, I knew Melton.

The man that got shot last night? The child actor? I mean, the one who was a child actor? Oh my god. She let go of my forearm and put her hand to her mouth.

I worked with him, he was my supervisor. We weren’t best friends or anything. But she was right. He’d been a child actor; bit parts in a couple of B-movies, then a younger brother roll in a TV show that didn’t last that long. I’d heard all about his previous acting career many times at work.

I’m so sorry. She grabbed my forearm again.

Like I said, we weren’t best friends. But I still felt bad for the guy, and especially for his wife.

It’s so terrible, she said, no place seems to be safe anymore. Last weekend it happened in Santa Barbara. That’s such a gorgeous little town. She squeezed my forearm tighter. They say it’s the same killer.

Oh, I said, not really sure what to add. I never read the newspapers. I hardly ever knew what was going on. But I did know about Santa Barbara. I was up there last weekend, in Santa Barbara, I finally added.

You’re kidding?

No, I was surfing Rincon. A weird Northwester came over.

So you were there when it happened. Did you see anything? That poor boy and his girl friend—and he was an Asian movie star!

Vietnamese, I added, interupting her, Johnny Nguyen, a Vietnameese Jackie Chan—up and coming new Action Star. At least that’s what the movie rags said.

The lady gave me a puzzled look and then continued, Those poor kids gunned down on the side of the road—all because they had a flat tire.

Yeah . . .

You didn’t see anything?

See? I answered. No, I just surfed, then came home. It’s awful though.

You think it’s safe to be out on the street? She looked over her shoulder.

I followed her gaze. I saw a number of homeless over near the bathrooms. One man was wearing a pirate’s hat made of newspapers, another woman had on a long red cape and was holding a big, Moses-style stick out in front of her. A group of older people were sitting in lawn chairs in the shade of a few palm trees. They were white haired and wearing white clothing of course. And a jogger, a girl in her twenties, wearing dark spandex pants and a beige, tight halter top, was running down the middle of the park. Yeah, it’s fine, I said, although I did give one more look around, and my nerves seemed to jump start themselves once again, We’re okay.

Or at least I knew I was, even if my nerves wouldn’t tell me so. You see, I owned two forty-five’s; one tucked away at home and the other in my truck. Not that I was a gun freak or anything. But my apartment had been robbed a few years before, and, most importantly, I lived in Los Angeles.

The lady put the binocs up to her eyes again, looked back up the coast, and waved her left hand up in front of me, signaling me with her index finger. One more look, she said, just once more. She turned her head and looked back towards the pier. I was sweating again. I could feel the drops up on my forehead. I didn’t even know why I was there; I felt so bad. And I’d called the surf report; I knew it was flat. When Petrushka, my boss, had given us the day off because of what had happened to Melton, I should have just gone home and gone straight to bed and sweated my fever and cold away. But sometimes I don’t always do what’s exactly right for myself.

Now . . . you look familiar. You’re not somebody, are you?

I glanced at the lady and gave her another big smile. People were always saying I looked like somebody, like they recognized my face from somewhere, or seen me on TV or in the movies. I had a real character actor’s face. Cautious, I said, Cautious Hatfield. I stuck out my hand to shake hers. And no, I’m not anybody. Not an actor, nothing at all.

Jane Hayes, she said, and then she shook my hand while looking my face over. Cautious . . . You don’t look like you’re from the South.

I’m not. I’m from Monterey, but my dad was.

That explains it.

Then, for a moment, she seemed to be caught in a daze. Quickly she raised the binocs back up to her eyes and looked down towards the bridges again. What’s she doing? Jane asked, more to herself than to me.

Down on the PCH bridge there was a girl climbing the tall fence that bordered it. She was a long ways away, and her back was to us, but I could see that she had long blonde hair and that she was wearing white shorts and a sleeveless, spotted blouse. The fence was about nine or ten feet tall and the girl was about half way up it.

Oh my god, Jane said as she dropped the binocs from her eyes and handed them to me. I could be wrong, but I think she’s got a gun in her back pocket.

I grabbed the binocs and looked down through them as quickly as I could, focusing in right away. Sure enough, right in the left back pocket of her nice pressed white jeans shorts there was a pistol sticking out, a small one, probably a twenty-two. The girl was about three-fourths the way up the fence, climbing slowly like a mountain climber. As she turned her head left, I got a glimpse of her face: pretty, young, maybe lower twenties at tops, a hard jaw line, small pointed nose, and a frightened look in her eyes.

Cautious, go help her! I felt a rap on my arm and I saw that Jane had hedged herself in close to me. I backed away and almost knocked myself off of my bike.

Just a minute, I said, Maybe she’s there for a reason. I looked back through the binocs. The girl was close to the top of the fence. There was a small ledge up there. With her size, she could easily sit down on it, or stand on it, or take pot shots from it—or jump, swan dive, or fall. Yeah, there was a reason, I was sure of that, there absolutely had to be one, good or bad. But I was still feeling wobbly and I had enough problems of my own at that moment.

I felt a tug on my arm, two small hands gripping my biceps. Cautious, Jane said, If you don’t go, I am. And then she was off, past me and running down the dirt and cement path towards the Incline bridge.

I dropped my bike to the ground, dropped the binoculars, and found myself running. I caught up and then passed Jane immediately. Hey, I yelled to the girl up on the fence, Hey! But she didn’t hear me. The traffic from PCH was too loud, or, more likely, I was too far away. The girl was now up on the top of the fence and was about to swing her legs over. Up ahead of me, at the end of the path, there were about a half dozen cement stairs. I heard Jane yelling something and I looked over my left shoulder to see her about ten feet behind me.

The next thing I knew my right foot hit a rock, my arms and head flew forward, and my entire body cart wheeled itself once and then twice, right down the short flight of stairs.

Are you all right?

I looked up to see Jane, minus her sunglasses, looking down at me. Jane’s hair is silver, I thought to myself, Not grey.

I got up to my elbows and looked towards the PCH bridge—actually I squinted because my glasses were gone. The girl must have heard us coming, or at least heard my tumble, because she’d already turned around and was now half-way down the fence. She gave a quick glance over towards us and then leaped down to the walkway, falling down onto her knees. She glanced back over her shoulder at us and then quickly she was up and off and running the opposite way on the bridge, back towards the beach.

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