Last Light in Paradise: Chapter 9 Part 3

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. You can also 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 Nine: Part 3

He was still standing there measuring how fast he had found and lost the love of his life when he saw the sleek car was heading back down the drive toward him. For all his capacity to lead with reason, Creek remained a superstitious man. As she pulled into the turnaround before him, he was scrambling to remember what one thing or word or thought might have caused this luck. Or maybe she just forgot something.

The door swung open, and she got out and stood beside the car, engine running.

“Hi again,” she said. He had not moved a foot since she left.

“I would have bet against it,” he said.

“The thing is, can I stay?”

He had the feeling his smile was wrapped around the back of his ears, making his teeth big as piano keys.

“Until you get fat and old, and even after that,” he finally said.

“I meant, stay for dinner.” She swung the door closed. “I can cook.” She grinned. “Or could. Once. If you have anything more promising than dry goods and week-old jerky.”

She saw him holding his smile as he calculated his pantry, then she couldn’t help laughing.

“Oh lord. It’s true. It’s all you do have. Hey, I’m a big fan of deer meat and canned beans. Older the better.”

“Come. Let me prove I am not a baboon,” he said. She came up beside him and they walked side by side toward the veranda. They looked at each other, both up for brand new but not completely able to forget how brand new never stayed that way.

He said, “You always this …”

“Fast?” she said.

“That, yes. But …”

“Forward?”

“Absolutely. But more …”

“Misguided?”

“Radical, I was thinking,” he said, “with your commitments.”

“Me?! You just got me fat and old in one breath.”

He watched the playfulness in her body when she talked. It told him she was a fundamentally shy woman. Only when she was happy could she come into the world.

He said, “I was thinking: never leaves home, then, leaves and never goes back. Home.”

“Ah. Afraid if he feeds her, she’ll never leave. Remember? The rumors? The mad heiress shut-in?”

They walked beneath the large Dutch elm and up the stairs to his porch, where she could see most of his land and the sea beyond it.

“I have a kitchen.”

“You have a view that shames mine.”

“I was thinking steak. Put you in charge of the rest of the plate.”

He heard them before he saw them. They watched as a half a dozen automobiles came into view over the rise, all moving in a furious bank of dust down the road that led to his house.

“They part of your property?” she asked.

“No.”

“More people trying to buy you out?”

“I believe they are the holy shit brigade.”

The two of them stood watching as the cars came down the road. Each vehicle circled the big palm tree until the parade came to a stop, engines died, doors opened, and a small army of impeccably dressed men stepped out and began walking toward them. Creek recognized Judge Warren, Chief Councilman Horst Rasmussen, Police Chief Wade, and a few others. Johnny Diamond was not among them. They walked up politely, appreciative of the scale and sweep of his ranchland. The tall man with the bow tie, too-perfect features, and tailored clothes, was the lead councilman whom Creek had heard was a shoo-in for an upcoming senatorial seat.

“Mister Creek,” Rasmussen said. Creek thought it odd that he hadn’t addressed Ranny first.

“Councilman.” Creek nodded.

The man turned to Ranny and nodded slightly, saying, “Miss.”

“Miss Ranny Starbuck,” Creek said, “who is my guest. In case anyone starts using anything less than the King’s English.”

They were a clutch of politicians, with the carved smiles of professional liars, but the surprise of Ranny’s name worked like a fast jab, startling the suave right out of them. They replaced it abruptly with the high-watt focus that brightens for celebrities. It told Creek how mysterious her fame was and how successfully she had remained private, floating out to the public only rarely, but always a darling of speculation because of her beauty, money, and former fame.

As all ten men doffed hats, Creek knew he’d disrupted their carefully planned attack. He began to grin and could see that they thought he was gloating.

“You all on a mission to try to steal my land again? Or you here about the plane?” Creek asked.

“Plane? What plane?” It was Chief Wade.

“Jesus Christ. What now. Plane? Nobody said squatilydoodle about a plane.”

It was a short man who looked like a grumpy rat. With his jaw and chest jutting at a permanent angle, as if to life at large, Creek knew this to be Chumpsky, the city’s legal clerk. Creek also knew him to be the one anomaly on the council – he could not be bought and, therefore, would never be elected to any significant office. Creek admired this and knew that one day, should he need the truth, as surly as the man was, he would get it. The man owed Creek a very big favor, though he didn’t know it. Creek had helped one of Chumpsky’s relatives in France, and Creek knew the favor would be honored when it came due.

“Hello, Mister Chumpsky. Nice to finally meet you,” Creek said, meaning it.

The man scowled but nodded rough acknowledgment. Creek looked at the rest of them.

“So, you’re here about Charlie Russell.”

“Also,” Judge Warren said, “because you sent three boys to the hospital. Real lucky the bullets passed through the flesh. Still, it’s three citizens leapfrogging around town on crutches. A very embarrassing sight.”

“Not lucky,” Creek said. “Intended.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You shot up three of our boys! They work for us!” It was a big, round man with foggy glasses and a small boot size, named Jewel. 

Chumpsky piped up, “Not three. Two. He let Billy Langtree shoot the last one.”

Creek looked at Ranny. She was no longer smiling. She was shocked.

“They were young men!” someone said.

“They did nothing. Not a weapon, not a raised voice.” It was Jewel again.

“I don’t remember seeing you there,” Creek said. The man looked down.

“I have it that’s how it went. They are not hooligans,” Jewel mumbled.

“You’re here to school me? About something not one man among you witnessed or could possibly know about without talking to me?” Creek asked.

Rasmussen stepped into the purpose of their visit. As he spoke, his Danish accent bled through the years of bending reluctantly to English.

“Creek. We’ll do this another day. You have company. This matter of the accidental death of the Indian is over. I am, we are, the rule of law here. We’ve had enough public embarrassment.”

Creek said, “Afraid the headlines will chase away the big land rush?”

“That you say such a thing, and during this time of the Great Depression!” Rasmussen assumed a righteous pose, head up and eyes fiery.

Creek grinned and said, “Why else would you let a dead man float up on a beach and not report it? I mean, without a head? Sell all kinds of papers.”

“For God’s sake, Creek, it was an accident. Leave it alone.” It was Warren.

“And you know that how?” Creek said.

“The boat washed up this morning. His things were in it. Along with plenty of frayed wires and hooks.”

“I heard.”

Rasmussen walked forward a step and put his hands on his hips, stumping.

“This movie isn’t just frills and glamour!” he said. “It’s jobs and real cash! In the pockets of damn nearly everyone lives in this county of Santa Barbara! It’s sixteen A-rated investors on this, to the tune of ten million dollars and a boatload of tourists from everywhere. It’s a new Hollywood. People gonna come up from all over, by God, bringing money just to be a part of this big picture. Last thing they want to hear about is some silly cop going ‘bronco’ with a six-shooter over a dead redskin. So, you need to stand down, Creek, and get the hell out of the policeman business. Go back into whatever you don’t plant very well out here. Am I crystal clear about this, son?”

Creek looked at Ranny and knew the damage was done. He turned to the men, took out his wallet, pulled out the silver badge, flicked it at Rasmussen, who reached for it awkwardly. He missed, and it fell to the ground. Jewel walked to it, picked it up, and gave it to Warren.

“And the guns,” Rasmussen said.

“Not yours to take,” Creek said.

Rasmussen looked over at the judge.

“They’re Creek’s. To keep,” Warren said.

“Understand,” said Warren to Creek, “if I hear of any more shenanigans or reprisals, we will have words. You are no longer the law, but under the law. Capisce?”

Creek looked at the judge and tried to speak evenly without scaring Ranny.

“You tell this windy mouthed politician and his boyfriend Diamond, they ever come onto my ranch again, like he did in May, trying to pry me from it, there will not be flesh wounds. You tell him he ever sends a squad of dandies flashing iron and talking bravado to my land or reservation land, there will not be flesh wounds. And you tell this foreign-born goat-fucking immigrant he ever uses the word redskin in my presence, I will make it so his tongue never mangles the English language again. Is this completely clear?”

Creek faced Rasmussen now, bearing down on him, thinking he looked headed for a stroke as he tried to speak but could not.

“Horst!” Warren yelled. “Not another word. Not one. He’s been warned. Now get in your cars, every one of you, and drive away.”

Slowly, they moved off. Most of them stole a last look at Ranny, then got into their cars and drove off. Judge Warren lingered for a bit, standing at his car door. He was looking at Creek.

“I know you. From your record. The hook’s in deep on Diamond, but the boat makes it an accident.”

“You know it was Pony’s boat?”

“Harbor master seen him in it. Had his things in it.”

“Tore up? The hull, the mast?”

“Very much. Run up on boulders stacked at the south end of Padaro beach. Amazing it didn’t sink sooner, amount of water in it. And the holes.”

“And Pony’s things and the frayed wire that doesn’t match any other wire, they got back into the boat, let’s see, before or after it made shore?”

Judge Warren thought about this.

“No head, Delbert,” Creek said. “No autopsy. No witnesses. Some profoundly strange bruises.”

“Okay. All right. Jesus.” Warren tossed him the badge. “Prove it or drop it. But no more fireworks.”

“I had a badge up there, Judge, when those boys came. There were women and children. Unarmed people. It might have turned out different. They weren’t looking to chat. They were looking to browbeat. The two thugs were looking for more, if I hadn’t poached them. Sitting in the back of the car with enough thug guns to kill half the tribe.”

“No more fireworks, or give me back the badge.”

Creek held onto the badge. Warren nodded.

“Say hello to Penbrook and Sonora,” Warren said. “You find the head, you come to me. You find new evidence, you come straight to me. You have until the damn trial date or the day that movie starts. After that, this game is over. I don’t care who murdered whom, I got a town to look after, and there’s no turning the herd once they’re out of this pen, headed for this big payday movie bonanza.”

Creek grinned and watched Warren smile up at Ranny.

“Miss Starbuck. A real pleasure. I knew your mother. I’m sorry she’s gone. I know how close you were.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

They watched as Warren ducked into his seat, fired up the big Cadillac and drove away. Creek saw him vanish over the hill, and when the dust went off skyward, he turned to her. She had moved to the railing and was standing, arms folded, looking out to sea. He didn’t know what to do or say, so he kept quiet. Finally, she spoke.

“You shot three men? Actually shot them?”

“Well, two. Took minor wounds.”

“Boys? This was just yesterday?”

“It happened a little different than it sounds like it happened.” 

“And then you shot at the plane.”

He knew this would end badly. She turned and looked at him without warmth.

“Shot men with a gun, and nothing about it in your face or manner when I come to see you? You act like nothing happened? How can that be?”

He didn’t have a good answer for that.

“If that is who you are, who you can be, I feel stupid for misjudging you.” 

She waited, but he wouldn’t speak. She turned and walked down the porch stairs and across the yard to her car. She paused at the door.

“Who was he to you?” she asked.

“The Indian, Pony?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“The one person all these fools can kick the stuffing out of, and not one man will raise a finger to stop it or say it’s wrong.”

“And now, apparently, it was an accident?”

“Sure, just like it was for the guy who killed him and rigged the boat to make it look otherwise, just like a big Hollywood crime scene.”

She looked at him without flinching; trying to see past her new appraisal, but when she turned and got into her car, he could not tell what she had been thinking.

As she drove off, he thought, she will be gone for good now.

It made him wish he’d shot those reservation boosters dead. Shot down the plane in flames and watched it sink into the sea. Put his knuckles to the broad jaw of Horst Rasmussen and parted him from his too-bright teeth – all of it building a sourness he would need to let go of fast, if he wanted keep to the right road.  

Read Chapter 9 Part 2 here.

Read an interview with the Author