Last Light in Paradise: Chapter 10 Part 1
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 ten 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 10: Part 1
At the airport, a man said the plane was probably a 1929 Curtiss Robin with a fancy paint job on the nose. It had put in from L.A. the day before and left earlier today. Nobody knew its ownership, but an L.A. base probably meant Hollywood. Creek didn’t think they’d be returning, with a punctured wing.
It was nearly eight-thirty, and the sun was just setting. He headed for the harbor.
He found the harbor master in the Neptune Club, drinking with fishermen. After showing his star, Creek learned that the boat was still strung to a salvage crane on the patrol barge at the main launch. The man said to come back in the a.m., and Creek could look at it all he wished.
Creek took his big flashlight and walked through the maze of docks and slips until he found the barge. The boat was a “one-lung” inboard twenty-five-footer. It was in bad shape. Creek examined the wounded hull, the shattered bow, the spliced stanchions, and the tangled mast. A mast nearly thirty feet could have produced a harsh fall, but this one did not. None of it was authentic. The destruction looked about as natural as any sledgehammer and crowbar could make it. He took the wire he had found at the crime site and tried to match it to any rigging on the boat. Not a single strand came close. He scoured the boat by flashlight to see what might have caused the rectangles of bruise found on Pony’s body, but nothing matched. Even the gunwales were too short and too narrow. Finally, he turned to the transom, to the place where something had gouged out of its planking the name and number of the boat, making its origins untraceable.
It was possible that Pony had been in this boat, had climbed the makeshift ladder to free something high on the mast, and had fallen. The mast looked to be thirty feet tall, and a hard drop from near that height might slice a head loose.
But, there was no blood.
He heard voices in the distance. Someone hollered, so he cut his light and slid into the darkness. They came a few minutes later, beaming their lights across the row of yachts and shadows. He heard them whispering, heard someone belch. He smelled their cigarette smoke and then saw the flick of light arc into the water. They moved away down the dock. Creek waited, found his truck, and left the harbor. He drove to the only place where he thought a murderer might be.
Creek passed the Biltmore and pulled into the shadows of a Monterey cypress. Across the street, the lights of the hotel were discreet, hidden among spiky yuccas and Morton Bay figs. In the bay across from the hotel, Diamond’s yacht was lit along the riggings with globe lamps, making its presence a glamorous, outsized spectacle. Here was the heart of the movie hurricane. Creek would wait and watch.
In this fifth year of the Depression, nothing lifted the plight and hopes of the average man and woman more than a movie. Creek knew that, at the root of its psyche, the human race had a need for beautiful gods. A forty-foot silver screen, a golden blonde with doe eyes, and a rakish pirate with gleaming teeth just fit that bill.
America worshiped its movie stars. The equation was simple: own the star, and you own the masses. Own the masses, and you own the politicians. Own the politicians, and you own the top of the food chain.
Creek believed that something Pony had done or said had disturbed the equation, and it had cost him his life.
A Rolls pulled up. A woman who looked like Moony – blonde, young, and vivacious – stepped out and stood waiting for her escort. She turned, and Creek saw her look right at him, as if through the shadows into his eyes. She turned back to the car as movie star Tom Horn and a lean Rasmussen stepped out. The three of them linked arms and began walking down toward the launch. She looked back once, and Creek felt certain she was remembering his truck. He watched them motor across to the Silver Screen and climb aboard as a party of hundreds drew toward them. Creek wondered if Moony had won the part and if her boy Billy had any idea of the company she kept.
Creek suddenly felt tired and blue. It had been a complex day. Bad and good and dangerous and romantic, and it caught him suddenly, whispering: Close your eyes. Sleep. Don’t think about the tycoon with the fast-scanning eyes or the movie star in his black tuxedo with the white fawn that Creek knew to be Moony caught in his arms.
Don’t think about the boys you shot, the dead body on the beach, or the fact that you have not seen your father’s house nor visited your mother’s grave since returning from Europe.
Creek didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he heard himself snort. He woke to the chill of a predawn fog. He became aware of a fishing trawler gurgling quietly a hundred yards from the big yacht. A flat boat motored toward it, then rafted beside it. Creek watched as men hoisted a piece of machinery to a large hook, and the object was lifted up and over the rails of the trawler. Creek had seen the machine someplace, but he couldn’t place it. Probably engine parts. Finished, the trawler moved off and vanished quietly into the fog.
Creek thought about that transaction. About the odd hour, the dark time, the risk in transfer, and the speed of the switch. He knew Diamond had something to do with this exchange. Diamond probably required inspection or finances. Creek knew he had just watched the delivery of a piece of equipment that was clandestine, and he had a strong feeling it had nothing to do with movies. His instinct made it feel like something to do with deep water.
The yacht was quiet. The Rolls had left. He started the cold engine, pulled out, and headed up the coast. The road was already busy, probably with early risers from Carpinteria or Ventura, maybe Mexicans or Chinese gardeners headed for the big estates in Montecito, or farmers bringing produce to the groceries and restaurants. He passed his turnoff and drove till he hit the big road called Refugio. He took it up the mountain. When he came to the firebreak at 2,000 feet, he turned south and drove along the dirt to the monolithic boulder. He parked, got out, and stretched. He had been sitting now for a full night and morning. He took the trail that led downward toward the deep river gorge. It ended at a giant sycamore tree that grew out of the cliff, its branches fanning over the riverbed that had boulders as big as houses. In winter, when the water came, the noise from the gorge was deafening. Now, as he stood by the slab of level rock beneath the tree, the water below was a thin string, barely visible.
He sat with his back to the tree, took his hat off, and thought about his two mothers. Both had been put to rest below the flat stone slab; one dressed, according to his father, in the finest fur and dancing gown she – his lively first wife – had ever worn; the second in the finest bead- and shell-covered buckskin dress any woman north of Sonora would ever see. The air now was dry and warm, and Creek loved the riverbed’s smell of pine and cottonwood.
“Hey,” Creek said. “I’m gonna sleep by both of you. I’d like to tell Pop you sent me a dream. Any one will do right now. Can’t make out what everybody’s doing or saying. Don’t want to turn mean. Don’t want to be foolish. So, if you can, would you talk to me a while? I know you’re happy. I can feel it. Sorry I don’t get up here enough. You know how much I miss you.”
He looked a last time at the rising sun as it bled through the trees. Then, he closed his eyes and went to sleep and fell directly into the dream.
You might also be interested in...
You must be logged in to post a comment.