Last Light in Paradise: Chapter 7

*Editor’s Note*

Every now and then, a story comes along that refuses to stay put. It lingers on your nightstand. It sneaks into conversation. For us, Last Light in Paradise is one of those stories, and we’re delighted to let it loose, one chapter at a time, in the pages of the Montecito Journal. Well, at least the first six chapters for the time being – then you can purchase the book at one of our local beloved bookstores: Chaucer’s, Tecolote, and Godmothers.

This book marks a first for us… Last Light in Paradise is the inaugural book published by MJ Media Group. Yes, we’re dipping a toe – perhaps a barefoot run – into the world of book publishing, guided entirely by our belief in a novel that is as cinematic as it is soulful, as local as it is timeless.

Set against the luminous backdrop of 1930s Santa Barbara, this is a tale of love and loss, mystery and reckoning, populated by unforgettable characters and infused with the kind of atmosphere that feels both dreamlike and deeply true. We invite you to settle in, turn the page, and join us at the edge of paradise… just as the light begins to change.

Chapter 7

They sat in the hot, leather-smelling, farm-smelling, machine-smelling Ford parked beside the station as Creek wrote in his notebook while Billy tried to look at everything in the cab of the old truck, wanting his some-day truck to be just like it.

“Where we going?” the kid asked.

“Up-country.” 

“The rez?”

Creek nodded.

“What are you writing?”

“Questions. Stuff that might have shown up on the autopsy.” He turned to Billy. “Where are the movie people?”

“That’s not the rez.”

“Not going to stir them up, Billy. Just want to see the players. Then we’ll go on up to the rez.” Creek wrote some more, then closed the book and laid it on the seat.

“They’re all at the Biltmore. You think it wasn’t an accident?”

“Think one way, feel another.” Creek let it ride; so did Billy.

“You gonna take your gun out again?” Billy asked.

“Not in front of people. Once ought to do it.”

Billy thought hard before speaking about his boss, Sheriff Wade.

“He’s just… old,” Billy said, “and set. Like a broke finger or a crooked foot. It’s his yard is all. And you’re new. He’s got a scratchy bedside manner, but he’s easy with us, and he has a good heart. Oughta see him at Christmastime.”

“Maybe I was a little fast with him,” Creek said and backed the truck up. The shift was long and solid and the gears protested coming back into first, but the truck drove away nicely. Billy was hoping to be seen in it before they left town.

“The Biltmore?” Billy asked.

Creek nodded and said, “Want to see this famous yacht. Biggest in the world. Cursed, I hear. Everyone ever owned her had bad luck.”

Traffic stalled at the crossing of El Camino Real, where a large crowd had gathered to watch the procession of movie traffic, up from L.A., heading north to the movie lot. People cheered as if for a parade as every kind of rig passed by: flatbed, boom crane, cherry picker, costume van, prop van, classic car, horse trailer, blimp van, taco truck, bus, cable car, train car, and limousine. There were animals in vans, wranglers waving from windows, scantily dressed women standing on flatbeds. The mighty magic of Hollywood in an endless train of equipment and excitement moving up the coast to its new home by the sea and bringing with it hundreds and hundreds of new jobs in a time as bad as anybody had ever seen. It was a Hollywood migration, and the crowd was shouting as much for the festivity of it as for this first evidence of the coming boom.

As they waited, Creek began to notice what he had missed in the fog the prior night: how the town had painted and streamered itself into a noisy party for the movie. Billboards, posters, and life-size cutouts littered every block and storefront. People dressed up as movie stars, unabashed and playful, strutting cigar and umbrella props and laughing at each other on the sidewalk. Scruffy, barely shaved hobos wore A-frames advertising Big Red Sunset and its star Tom Horn, the man Creek had watched take a bullet to his billboard jaw. Everyone drank openly now on the streets, the men sporting pomaded hair slicked black and flat, their girls sporting platinum curls and ruby-red lips, the costumes making it easy to be bold, to be laughing even as their eyes scanned to see who was with the movies and who wasn’t. A town swimming in it, Creek thought, as if they’d all awakened this morning buoyant and chipper, believing the hard times were over, they were still young and picture-perfect, and even now their ship of gold was sliding into the harbor.

The tail of the procession passed, and the cars moved forward. Creek drove to the sea road and turned at the town stores, heading south. Again, the traffic slowed. He saw a line of people four blocks long leading away from the big the Starlight Skating Rink.

“What’s that about?” Creek asked. Billy looked at him to see if he was joking.

“Casting. To be in the movie. He’s gonna use locals. And one female for the lead.”

“Who would ‘he’ be?”

“The big tycoon.”

“And he’s the boy running this game?”

“Mister Creek. You can’t be real. Where you been since the last century?”

Creek smiled at the kid. “They don’t let me in on much polite conversation.”

“Johnny Diamond.”

“Thought he was a developer.”

“He’s everything. There’s him and Howard Hughes and Darryl Zanuck and, lord, Creek – Johnny Diamond? Really? It’s his boat we’re headed for.”

They came to a stoplight. A woman looked over at them, broke from a line, and headed toward them. Billy saw her and blushed.

“Who’s that movie star waving at us?” Creek asked. “Your girl?”

“Someday maybe.”

The animated blonde was skipping across the sidewalk. She came up to the truck and jumped on the runner beside Billy.

“Mister Lawman!”

“Hi, Moony.”

“You sleuthing?”

He looked over at Creek and back at her, emboldened.

“Might be. Might be trying to find a murderer.”

Her face went mock shocked.

Billy said to Creek, “A natural born actress.”

“For real?” she said, husky and amazed.

He looked at Creek, Creek shook his head and rolled his eyes. 

“Creek, this is Moony. Moony Sawyer, Creek. Creek’s the lead investigator in a case. You didn’t read about it?!”

“Would have, Mister Shakespeare, if they’d printed it. But they didn’t.”

“That’s odd. You memorize all your parts?” Billy asked.

“Gotta move forward,” Creek said as the traffic began to shift. It unsettled him that there had been no press about Pony.

Moony nodded but stayed on the runner as the Ford crept forward. Hamming it up, she said “Lawman, put the pedal to the metal. I’m packin’ lead in this holster and silver dollars in my boots, so let’s not be the last thing smokin’ outa’ this donkey hole of a cow town.”

They all busted up, and Billy was crimson and beaming.

“Donkey hole,” Billy said.

“Polizia! Sceriffo ready for my close-up!” Moony leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, then flew down, and they watched as everybody saw her cross the street with a comic swagger to take her place in line. Billy felt like a million dollars.

As the truck went by, Creek honked the horn. She bowed, and they laughed again.

“Natural born,” Billy said. “Not just the ham stuff. You oughta see her do the serious acting. Nobody makes wisecracks when Moony is in a play.”

They crossed the tracks as the road curved beside the Piers Casino and came to the Biltmore. The Biltmore had its own bay, its own bluffs, its own claim to the spectacular in a spectacular town. Its grounds were packed with people. It had been a premier hotel for a nearly a decade, and its quiet Spanish cottages, the towering fig and palm trees, its big-timbered bar and patios, all facing a dreamy sea cove, were catnip to the romantic and the lascivious of Los Angeles. They came back for their affairs and their honeymoons year after year.

But now, the sprawl of the Biltmore and its large crowd diminished before the brilliant staging of Johnny Diamond. Anchored sideways, impossible not to see from any point, was a 134-foot, four-masted, six-cabined yacht called the Silver Screen. It was magnificent and had remained so through the alterations of five previous owners, all of whom contributed to its reputation as the most beautiful sailing ship ever built.

Dwarfed by the giant scale of booms and masts, a hundred guests moved along its decks with the serenity of royalty. A dozen launch boats shuttled people back and forth. The hotel and its bustling crowd, luminous as they seemed, were its landed captives.

“The swells,” Billy said.

Creek had only pretended not to know who Johnny Diamond was. In truth, he knew a lot about him. It’s why he was here. The chief was a nuisance, but Johnny Diamond was who he needed to see. He wanted to talk to the man who had engineered the largest land swindle in California history, hypnotizing everyone with the divine fascination of moving pictures. Including the Indians he wouldn’t let on the set.

Creek pulled his truck to the curb. Just below them, at the mouth of the pier, a blue Packard blocked access. It had all its doors open, and three young men in ill-fitting suits sat casually on the fenders. They were screening guests to the big yacht.

Creek stepped out, told Billy to keep the Ford running, and walked twenty feet to the seaside phone booth. He left the door open, jostled the phone receiver, and asked the operator to get him John Penbrook’s ranch over on Santa Rosa. She said it would take a minute or two.

He leaned against the beveled glass and studied the famous yacht. This was the kingmaker, Johnny Diamond. The man who got the land, teed up the movie, and told the Indians to stay away. Someone on the pier whistled, and the three goons slid off their perches and got into the car. They fired it up and idled in position as a group approached them. Creek knew the tall one with the big Stetson would be Diamond.

The phone rang. The operator gave him Penbrook.

“Creek?”

“Hello, John.”

“Well, I heard they had him cremated. Guess that’s normal.”

“Is in this town, apparently. I can bring you the urn.”

“Well, it’s only flesh. Spirit’s gone. Guess that would be nice. Put him in the ground by that big Moreton Bay, above the cove.”

“John, there were some marks, on bone, some bruises, and some rough tearing of skin. Fundamentally, the head came clean off.”

“The marks?”

“Yeah.”

“After he died? Like from hitting the boat?”

“Maybe. Maybe from before the fall.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“You think that,” John said.

“His feet, too, John. Badly cut on the soles. Even a barefoot hobo doesn’t have that many cuts. The bruises were, well, like someone walloped him. Pretty sure the bruises came first, before he died. Might be like some big cat. Or shark. Or, Lord knows, somebody he maybe crossed.”

“God.”

“No boat yet and no head. And, weirdly, no newspaper account. Pretty sure we’ll find a boat, if that’s what happened.”

“Jesus, Creek. You’re really scratching around this thing.”

“Well, I’m just saying.”

“Saying what, Creek? Spell it out, for God’s sake.” 

“It’s possible, John.”

“He was universally loved, that boy. I’m believing he purchased a boat someplace, set off for God knows where, and fucked up good. Pretty much end of story. Creek, it’s hard enough to bear that he’s gone. What you’re saying would put Sonora… well, it might just kill her. She’s already taken to bed and won’t be up any time soon.”

The line was silent for a long while. Creek saw Billy waving across the street. He looked up and saw the procession of Chief Wade, Tim Horn, the town council, and taller and more vivid, the man he knew to be Johnny Diamond. He wore a ten-gallon and a sequined cowboy shirt. As they passed near Creek, Johnny Diamond noticed him. When one of the councilmen leaned in and whispered something, Diamond’s eyes did a quick scan of the area looking for something to explain Creek’s presence, then came back to rest on Creek. Diamond’s eyes were cold and cautious, but he made his face smile and nodded to Creek as he passed by. A few who had eyes on the kingmaker swung toward Creek to see who he might be. Finding nobody important or familiar, they turned back to the parade. Creek wondered if there was a formal noun for the business of being a sycophant. Penbrook’s voice broke through.

“Creek, he had no enemy. He was Indian born, but everyone who ever knew him really knew him and liked him. He walked a rut like a milk cow, same routine for more than thirty years. I don’t want anything smoking up his life.”

“Did the chief talk to you?”

“The chief is a porker. It’s me. I knew the boy. He put to sea, and he had no business doing it. Paid with his life. About all I want to know about it.”

Creek let this settle, thinking what little right he had to stir it up.

“You know I hate a bully,” Creek said. “Be nice to know it wasn’t that. Would you mind if I just look around a little? Until the boat shows up? Or are you… is this you saying you don’t want that?”

There was another long silence. Finally, Penbrook spoke.

“Listen, Creek. It’s more than just heartache. I believe I contributed to this. Pony came to me some time back and shocked the shit out of me by asking for his wages. Didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask. But I should have. I didn’t have the whole figure then, but I gave him a few bucks, and I believe he used it to buy a fucking boat. I believe he paid for that folly with his life. Maybe just bring him home, Creek. Let us just put our boy in the ground and move on. You come across when you can; we’ll bury him up by that big Fig. I’ll send the ferry for you when you wish.”

“Okay. All right. I will, John. I’ll bring him over tomorrow or the next day.”

“Boat will be there at two. Thank you for all of this, son.”

He hung up his end, and Creek held down the cradle. It rang back and the operator said it required fifteen cents. He put a nickel and a dime in the slots and hung up. He stood watching the ceremony. The crowd had moved on to the Biltmore, and Creek looked out to the great yacht.

Diamond’s people had come onto Creek’s place in a thinly veiled effort to take his land. He had sent them away with his sentiments whizzing just inches above their heads, the sound of bird-grain buckshot spattering the dry magnolia leaves quickening their retreat. They had come at him from a few more angles but had dropped the attack when they shifted gears, and Diamond decided to drop it. 

His instincts hummed. Diamond bothered him. Ranny’s man bothered him. He had till the boat came to poke around; then he’d leave it alone. He’d told the station he and Billy were headed for the reservation, so he’d go on up there and ask about the lawsuit, find out if anyone saw Pony in The Talking House, where they served mah-jongg and canasta and “light” poker to go with a few other things. The rest of the night hung on what you wanted to do with it. Less talk, the better. See if Pony went up there with a pile of money in his pockets and ever talked about buying a boat.  

CLICK HERE for Chapter Eight of Last Light in Paradise.