Chapter Twenty-One
Isobel stood before the mirror trying on her new helmet when Maria returned, carrying a bag of groceries.
“We’re just going for a short spin, we shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
“Maybe two, with coffee,” Ryan chipped in.
“Well, don’t let me get in the way of true love and a motorbike,” said Maria.
“Anything you want me to do while you’re away? Change the sheets, perhaps?”
“And risk the wrath of Juanita?”
“Then do you have a guidebook I could have a look at, to see if there’s anything that appeals? Just in case you don’t return.”
“There’s one somewhere,” said Isobel, moving toward the door, straining on the chinstrap as she did so.
They sped along Silver Strand, the flat and narrow strip of reclaimed land that separates the Pacific from San Diego Bay. Isobel had ridden the road many times, past the elite Navy SEAL HQ and the Marine Corps amphibious base, one flag after another marking out the road like V-E day had come round a second time. Now she clung to Ryan, the wind from the ocean rushing through her blouse and hair. A helicopter skimmed over the ocean, its rotor blades swirling along with Isobel’s emotions.
The temporary hedonism of the bedroom had given way to reality, and with it a sense of aimlessness. A week ago she had been inching away from Ryan; now she clung to his back like a child as he spirited her away to God knew where. She looked out at the helicopter where the helmeted crew in their orange suits leant out of the open hatch, their bodies insignificant flecks against the brilliant blue of the sky.
When they reached Imperial Beach, Ryan kept left toward the freeway, the road now lined by one open parking lot and beige retail block after another, without a house or a pedestrian anywhere to be seen. On the freeway he headed south, in the direction of the border, opening up the 1500cc engine and Isobel could feel herself thrown back against the seat rest as the mighty machine accelerated. She pressed into his back for protection from the force of the wind stream, her arms tight around his waist as fear took hold of her.
He slowed after perhaps no more than a minute at breakneck speed. As they reached the last exit before the international border he turned off the freeway; she squeezed down on his shoulder for attention. “Please, Ryan, don’t go so fast, you frightened me.”
“Sorry, babe, I meant to give you a thrill. You want that coffee now?”
“I’d rather go home. I’d like to talk.”
“No rush, babe. I’ll take us somewhere quiet, and we can talk as long as you like.”
He drove west away from San Ysidro and into open countryside. He kept the bike moving at a speed at which Isobel could relax back against the padded seat, her hands light on the side of the saddle as her hair flowed back from her shoulders. He had taken her into an area thick with stables, where men in Stetsons with sun-beaten faces exercised horses around paddocks, framed through white wooden fences. He turned onto a dusty track and it soon became clear they were travelling parallel with the border. The flat scrubland on one side gave way to rising green slopes on the other, topped with the high wire fence that marked the barrier to keep the rich safe from the restless. Beyond the boundary fence, on the brow of the hill, an uneven row of low white buildings marked the beginnings of Tijuana. Ryan pulled off the track and threaded his way left and right through the brush land with all the ease of an Indian scout, the wheels kicking up dust, until they came across a clearing with a wooden bench and pulled in.
“You still okay?” he asked.
She nodded, thankful to have her feet planted on the ground again and her body intact. “I don’t see a coffee shop anywhere,” she said ruefully.
“I guess they moved it.”
“I never knew this wilderness existed so close to home,” said Isobel, looking around.
“Not many people do. I think it’s a nature reserve. But you need a pickup or a motorbike to get down here, unless you want to risk losing an axle.”
“But it’s just so deserted.”
“Some who know it’s here stay away because they’re afraid they’ll be hijacked by wetbacks that have made it across the fence, or up the river. Anyway, now we’re here, you want to stretch your legs a while?”
They had not seen a soul since they left the main road, so they took off their helmets and left them dangling from the handlebars.
They walked, hand in hand like young lovers, stopping now and then when a jackrabbit came their way or a squirrel caught their eye. Isobel fell deep in thought, pondering their earlier lovemaking, still wondering where her relationship with Ryan might lead her. They came to a winding river that ran down from Imperial Beach and flowed out into the ocean. Half a mile to the north two grey helicopters were looping out to the shoreline and back in an oval pattern.
“We’d better not go any further or someone will want to know what we’re doing this close to the border.”
“But there’s no one around to see us.”
“Don’t you worry, they’re around. Watching. Someone, somewhere, will have their binoculars trained on us.” His voice took on the hard edge it often did when he held forth on anything to do with authority. “From the way this dirty strip of wasteland is monitored you’d think we’d stumbled into the DMZ with North Korea. If you fart, some pen-pusher in Washington will know it through a sound detection system, even if they can’t smell it.” He picked up a stone and skimmed it across the water. “And they call it a free country.”
They sat down on the riverbank and were silent for a while, watching the herons and pelicans and the other birdlife, large and small, that dived into the murky grey water.
“What happened?” she asked eventually. “Why the motorbike? And why did you come down without telling me? I could have been off anywhere.”
“I just wanted to see you, and it’s been kinda hard getting hold of you by phone.”
“But there’s more to it than that. The man who ravished me today didn’t feel like the same guy who last pulled my panties off.”
“And who was he?”
They both laughed. “Please, Ryan, you’re not keeping anything from me, are you?”
“Look, it’s like this. I’ve had a lot of shit to deal with these past few months. Some stuff you know about, some I haven’t bothered you with. I’ve been stressed out, trying to get the film financed and at the same time running out of money to pay the rent. That’s why I didn’t come down to see you after you were knocked off your bike.”
“But you’re not in any kind of trouble? Anything serious?”
“Not now. The funny thing is everything just fell into place this last week. Darkest before the dawn and all that. I nailed down the backing I needed for the film, I got a bit of a windfall, which paid for the bike, and I got a regular job—sort of—from the guy funding the project. And through him some other doors have opened for me.”
“So what sort of job?”
“Not pumping gas like us actors are supposed to get by on. This guy, the guy behind the film, Victor Shahidi, he’s a wheeler-dealer. Some guy who came over from Iran. And he brought his loot with him. Today he’s a legit businessman; he’s got his fingers in lots of different pies— property, art, entertainment—the type of guy you need to know in LA if you’re going to make it. Now he wants to be a celebrity. He likes to be around movie people and he’s got an ego the size of Planet Hollywood.”
“In other words, a filmmaker’s dream?”
He laughed. “He may be on an ego trip but he’s one of the shrewdest guys I’ve met. He’s had people who know what’s what kick the tyres on this baby, you can bet your ass on that.”
“And he’s opening other doors?”
“Yep. There’s an army of Iranians in LA. Most of them, the ones with money, anyway, hang out in Beverly Hills. They stick pretty close together and look after their own, so you don’t want to cross one of them. But if you’re lucky enough to find a way in with them, then the sky can be the limit. Maybe now with some luck I can start spoiling you the way you deserve, fancy restaurants and places instead of fast food joints.”
“Don’t be silly, I don’t care about fancy restaurants.”
“Come off it, babe, everyone likes the good life, if they can get it.”
“But we’ve had some great times, like we did this afternoon, just being together.”
“And this morning?”
“Yes, and this morning, though I’m not sure about the spanking part of it.”
“But you’ll come to LA this weekend? We can make it an early birthday celebration.” It seemed like the perfect cue for a subject still preying on Isobel’s mind.
“You remember what you said the night I came back from Mexico, about me just wanting you for sex—“
He laughed. “Hey, I thought we already went over that.”
“But you don’t think it now, do you?”
“You mean because you dragged me straight into the bedroom the first second I got here?”
“I miss you, that’s all,” she said, smarting a little at his lack of gallantry.
He gently squeezed her cheek. “And I miss you. And not just because you’re hotter than mustard between the sheets.”
“I’m serious, Ryan.”
“So am I.”
He picked up a broken twig and began to draw a figure of eight in the dirt, his mind seeming to have moved on.
“And it’s not just about the sex for you?” she persisted.
‘What kinda question is that?”
“The kind of question a girl who doesn’t know where she stands asks.”
“What’s there to know?”
“Think about it. You come into my life and tell me I’m your princess, next you’re playing like Mr. Cool from Sunset Strip, then you come across as the love struck kid who dotes on me. What am I to think?”
He put his hand behind her neck and leant in and kissed her.
“Remember what you were saying about wanting to take things one step at a time—you do remember saying that? Well, isn’t that what we’re doing? I got ahead of myself taking over your place the way I did. All I’m asking you now is to come up to LA for the weekend. Another step, if that’s the way you want to see it.”
She wanted to say more, to tell him that if he wanted to make it work between them he needed to give her more than he was giving her; to be more than a young gun who came and went as he pleased; a stud who had arrived on her doorstop that morning unannounced, bringing with him nothing more than his new toy and an aching erection. Someone who whispered sweet nothings in her ear when he wanted to get between her thighs, but who left her bed leaving only a hastily scribbled note of good- bye. The invitation to LA counted as a step into new territory, that she recognised. But something about it disquieted her. It was too needy. But a step nevertheless, and she left more questions for another time.
He kicked his boot through the figure of eight, and in its place he drew a squiggly heart. He gave her a brief kiss. “That what you want?” he asked.
She returned the kiss, but fervently, holding his head in her hands. “You’re getting warmer. Though you might want to think more chocolates and flowers.” She gave him a playful push. “And movie tickets too, if you know what they are.”
He poked her in the belly. “Stop stalling and answer the question. What about this weekend?”
“As it happens, this weekend works well. I do have Maria here but her husband is coming over from Dallas so she doesn’t need me hanging around as a third wheel. So yes, I’d love to come.”
“I’ll book us into somewhere special, somewhere in Beverly Hills. The Pink Palace, maybe.”
“Please, Ryan, dinner for two at your place would be fine.”
“No way, baby, we’re going to celebrate Hollywood style. Brash and flash. My town, my rules, okay?”
She ran her fingers through his hair. “I love it when you’re masterful.”
He pulled her close and they lay back on the bank together, his hand working to free her blouse from her jeans.
“What about the guy behind the binoculars?” she asked.
“There’s no law against smooching in public—not yet, anyway. And as long as you keep your butt below the line of that bank, we’ll be fine.”
“What about your butt? Or are you suggesting I do all the work?”
She stretched out her legs, opening her mouth and her body to him in unspoken invitation. He kissed her long and deep, pulling at the belt on her jeans.
“You know something, we are being watched,” she said.
He turned to see a red squirrel looking down on them.
He grinned. “In that case, we’d better put on a bit of a show.”
Between them they kicked her jeans to her ankles and she pulled one leg free of them. “If I scream,” she said, “it might have something to do with the stone sticking into my buttock.”
“So you won’t be faking it?”
She rolled him onto his back and straddled him. “I never do. At least not with you, lover boy.”
As they arrived back at the clearing, the sight of a green and white border patrol pickup truck met them. Two officers stood resting their backs against the hood, watching their approach. Ryan stopped Isobel with a squeeze to the elbow.
“You wait here. It’ll just be routine. They’ll want to ask about the bike.”
Isobel stayed back as Ryan made his way over, the two officers pushing themselves upright to meet him. She watched warily from out of earshot, searching for clues from the body language, as Ryan answered whatever questions they had. He seemed to be doing most of the talking, with the policemen nodding understandingly. Several looks and gestures came in Isobel’s direction, and also towards the bike. Eventually the talking stopped and the gaze of both officers fell unwaveringly on her. It brought back the way Detective Burnham had studied her, and she shuddered at the recollection. The taller of the two patrolmen raised an arm in Isobel’s direction. She could not be sure if he meant it as a polite wave or to beckon her over. She began to move towards them, but as she did so they turned and got into their vehicle.
“You two have a good day now,” said one of the officers, seeming to address Isobel rather than Ryan, and touched his cap as the vehicle pulled away.
“What did they want?” she said, taking Ryan’s arm and pulling him to her.
“Like I thought, just a routine check on the bike. But they did say they didn’t know whether the bike or you were the greater beauty.” He tossed over her helmet. “But come on, let’s move it.”
She pulled back on his arm, dissatisfied with his flippant reply.
“But why would the border patrol want to know about your bike? Why would they waste their time waiting for us? Couldn’t they have checked it out on their computer?”
He shrugged. “They were a couple of gas-heads in uniform, that’s all.”
“But they didn’t ask to see your driver’s licence or anything?” “Hey, babe, what the fuck is this? Twenty questions? Border patrol is one step up from the dog-handling division; those jokers spend their life sitting behind a wheel waiting for something to happen. They’re bored senseless. If they want to talk bikes, who gives a shit?”
She hugged him to her. “They make me nervous that’s all, after everything that happened before.”
“Sure, babe, no worries.” He paused. “Just remember, that shit at the border is in the past, and that’s where you should leave it.”
Ryan leant back over his shoulder as they waited for the stoplight near the Del to turn green. “You still okay for that coffee I promised, or you need to get back?”
“We can have one at home, say hello to Maria.”
“We already did that. I say we rev it up down Orange, frighten the blue-hair brigade. Grab on tight.”
The light changed and Ryan gunned the engine, heads turning from all directions as if a police siren just went off. He cruised down the main street making more noise than speed, Isobel thankful of the anonymity provided by the helmet. They bought two cups of coffee at Ferry Landing and sat watching the wooden boats that plied their trade across the still waters of the bay, carrying tourists back and forth between Coronado and downtown San Diego.
“Now that we’re done posing, what do you want to do next?” asked Isobel.
He looked at his watch. “Guess I’d better be heading back, much as I’d like another roll in the hay.”
She laughed. “Have I ever told you that you say the most romantic things?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Let me just show you the gallery where I help out. I’ve told you enough about it, I’d like you to see it.” He shrugged. “It’s on our way back, anyway.”
“And you work here for zip?” asked Ryan as they sat straddling the bike directly outside the gallery.
“It’s not work, not really, and I’m learning all sorts of things.”
“No shit.”
“You’re not impressed?”
“By a store window? Let’s shoot.”
“We can go in if you want. Pauline won’t mind.”
He started up the motor. “Next time, maybe.”
He revved the engine while she fiddled with her chinstrap. She looked to the gallery, worried the racket would draw Pauline to deliver a dressing-down on the pavement. The door opened, but instead of the self- righteous figure she feared, Lance strode out. He seemed to recognise her immediately despite the helmet; it took them both a moment to recover, she temporarily frozen, his look one of simple surprise. The delay allowed Ryan time to take stock.
“So the door-hopping Bible pusher is making his rounds again?”
She glanced around to see Lance’s intimidating driver the other side of the road, standing against the black sedan looking, no doubt assessing the situation. Maybe, she thought, Ryan had already done the same as, to her relief, he made no move to dismount, or to cut the engine.
Lance made two steps forward, unhurried, his gait casual. He held out a hand. “Mr. Stamp, I presume. I don’t think we were properly introduced last time.” His words were laced with sarcasm. Ryan ignored the outstretched arm and Lance turned his attention to Isobel, his voice now sugar-coated. “What a pleasant surprise. How are you getting along with that Bible?”
“Hey, smart ass, do your sniffing around on your own time, the girl’s got company.” He turned his head to catch Isobel’s eye. “You all set, babe?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Hold tight.” He revved the throttle hard, his narrowed eyes on Lance, the acrid smell of exhaust fumes filling the air. The engine roared and the back wheel screeched as it spun against the blacktop. Instinctively, she hugged his waist. Rubber gripped the road and the big machine began to pull away. As it did so, Ryan lifted the front wheel from the ground, striking the pose of a victorious speedster passing the chequered flag. She glanced back at Lance; he stood with his hands on his hips, watching as Ryan made off with the spoils, blue exhaust and the smell of burning rubber in his nostrils.