From having ridden all over California by night, I only knew it under cover of darkness. L.A. was connected with my dream of living with my father. I sometimes wept when I thought about that. Further north, Atascadero reminded me that I’d been judged crazy. We seldom went further south along the coast than Big Sur, where the road rises menacingly and a few scattered houses owned by rich cranks stand defiantly, looking as if they might tip over at any moment into the depths of the Pacific. The road was magnificent, steep and winding enough that you could imagine the consequences if you took one of those bends badly. The drop was like a magnet to me, and when Wendy had rejoined her father on his bike, I imagined myself making the big leap. We sometimes stopped in Carmel on the way back. I’d never set foot in Santa Barbara in my life, or in Beverly Hills, and I had never imagined the existence of enclaves like that where the rich and powerful gather in silent communities and living’s no problem, the only problem is how to grow old in a place as still as a taxidermist’s. The people strolling on the little road lining the beach would look at us out of the corners of their eyes, anxiously, then go on their way, impeccably dressed, walking ridiculous little dogs in pairs, dogs with hair pruned like box trees. These people probably only made kids when they couldn’t have dogs, because the young left the place as soon as they could. This little town with its neat blocks of houses and tiny gardens that looked as if they were tended with nail clippers turned its back on the world, showing it an icy indifference. All the same we parked our bikes near the beach, took a swim, and fried sausages in a sandy enclave sheltered from the wind. Duigan fell asleep on his towel after his second beer. Wendy lay down on her back, her arms crossed over her eyes. I leaned back in the shade against the stone wall and watched a few luxury sailboats maneuvering at the edge of the beach. Wendy’s boyfriend hadn’t been invited on our trip, which says a lot about what Duigan thought of him. It was becoming obvious that he preferred me, but I didn’t know how to handle things so as not to disappoint him. He couldn’t imagine anyone more suitable to protect his treasure, and we were getting friendlier every day. So was Wendy, in fact even more so.
I had feelings for Wendy, but I wasn’t capable of desire. The first time she kissed me, I tensed up, though I tried not to show it, and she just put her arms around me in silence. The day she tried to go further, I refused, making the excuse that I wanted to marry her and my principles forbade me to do anything before marriage. Not being particularly obsessed with sex, she took it well. We made a nice couple, but I knew it wouldn’t last because one of these days Duigan would find out that I had killed my grandparents and would take his daughter back, though I didn’t want her anyway. In the meantime, the rumor went around the Jury Room that I was now almost the son-in-law of the head of the homicide squad and that was all it took for them to think of me as one of their own.
Duigan woke up, his eyes swollen with the accumulated fatigue of the week, and when he saw Wendy’s head on my chest he smiled at us. Wendy rode with me on the way back and we sped across those big agricultural plains where stooped little Mexicans turn their back on the sea. At Duigan’s place, we sat down on the terrace again. The noise of the amusement park won out over the Sunday evening blues that had seeped into us. We drank our beers and the sadness gently faded. The phone rang. Duigan didn’t hurry to answer. When he came back he was dressed to go out and without going into any details asked me if I could give him a ride.