Chapter 21

Twenty years had not altered the fissured and weedy parking lot at Mother’s Beach in Marina del Rey, where Setsuko and Hugh had regularly taken the twins as toddlers. So unchanged was the flat gray slab that Hugh turned to reassure himself that his sons were there, but they were not there, just the bare backseat awaiting the infant car seats.

As Hugh got out, he turned at the throaty growl of a car engine and saw the primed Camaro. He turned, walked a few steps toward the beach, stopped and looked back. The car was gone.

A couple of teenage girls scampered by him.

Hugh stopped, opened his wallet and took out the scrap of paper on which Anna had written her name and phone number. He tore the paper into a dozen little pieces. He let the scraps sink into the garbage like hot pistols into the sea.

Under the covered patio bordering the beach, smoke rose from barbecues tended by seniors in sunhats, Venice, California, silk-screened on their baggy T-shirts, from whose sleeves hung frail arms bright with sunspots. As breakfast patties sizzled and cranberry juice flowed, a wilted flower child bopped to “Whole Lot of Love” while her man smoked his doobie, thrusting his hips. Leaning against the wall of an outdoor shower, a homeless man with a face like dying embers clawed at his despairing yellow dog.

“You need coolin’, baby, I’m not foolin’ . . .”

Across the dull brown sand, mothers spread their blankets, distributed juice packs, mini-donuts and bagged cereal. A sailfish tacked the inlet, and one hundred yards away, a cabin cruiser pulled out of its marina, gray exhaust bubbling up from the water. Hugh took off his sandals, cuffed his jeans and walked down the beach.

Half a life ago, Setsuko and Hugh had eaten dinner and danced at Sol Luna, a restaurant that overlooked the marina and the little public beach.

Later they left the restaurant to sit on the dark sand, watching the night-lights of the docked boats and passing crafts sparkle on the water. Hugh challenged Setsuko to strip down to her panties and bra and go for a swim with him. For most of the two weeks they had spent together in the states, Setsuko had been on edge. She hadn’t called her father to tell him that Hugh had gone to Los Angeles with her, and it troubled her to think that she would not be able to tell Kazuki, for then she would have to tell him all of it. Under Hugh’s tutelage, Setsuko had agreed to lie to her father—each lie, even if only one of omission, would widen her orbit, so that one day she might be pulled from his gravity—but that didn’t free her from the guilt. Tonight, though, a day before they were to return to Japan, she seemed utterly relaxed and didn’t hesitate to unclothe and dash into the water.

They swam out to the rope that signaled the limits of the bathing area. Clinging to the rope, they made love.

It was perfect, but—

Hugh never mentioned the odd pulse of the water as they joined, and he could not have then guessed that its source was a hundred circling sharks. Nor did he mention the vague, solitary creature hunched down on the shadowy sand, perhaps watching them, perhaps admiring the lights on the water, perhaps eyeing their heaped garments; for when Hugh and Setsuko returned to the beach, Hugh found nothing missing, and he didn’t want to frighten her.

Hugh looked back toward the road where a moment ago he saw the Camaro. That night on the beach with Setsuko, Hugh assumed that the person hunting through their clothes was a denizen of the beach. A vagrant looking for a few dollars or something to sell. But nothing had been taken . . .

Likely Hugh’s glance had frightened him off. He had never considered another explanation . . . Hugh turned his gaze back to the placid bay.

The calculations that Setsuko would later make put the conception of the twins at Mother’s Beach, and it was to Mother’s Beach that they would bring the boys as toddlers one hundred times.

One hundred times . . .

It was low tide. Rippled sand and mud—smelling of oil—stretched in a broad crescent like a black quarter moon. As he walked along the tide line toward the docks, he stopped to watch two boys dig a moat for their castle. A woman, hugely pregnant, rushed to their side, eyeing Hugh. He smiled at her and moved on. The cool wet sand sunk beneath his feet, exuding another memory, a memory of mud.

Takumi and Hitoshi, a year old, sat at the bay’s edge, water lapping their toes. They dug into the mud, ripping out handfuls to toss aside or to taste, provoking their mother’s quick catch and release.

“It won’t hurt them,” said Hugh, lazing on the blanket, digging a beer from the ice chest, and wondering if the mud would truly not hurt them.

Their chubby white backs glistened with sunscreen. Setsuko coated them before they left the apartment, leaving not a sliver of skin unprotected. Their diapers protruded over their bathing suits like the petals of flowers. Their hair was not so dark as their mother’s, but still black and dense. Hugh drank his beer, walked to the water’s edge and dropped to his knees before them. He held out his hands palms up. Both boys got it right away, dropping the mud into his hands until it overflowed.

“We should go,” said Setsuko.

“We just got here an hour ago,” said Hugh, dipping his hands and shaking them clean. He hoisted both boys under his arms like sacks of flour and strode out knee deep. He dropped to his haunches, balancing each boy on a knee. They slapped at the water.

“Too much sun is not good,” said Setsuko.

“Ten minutes,” he lied.

She turned and walked back to the blanket, where she would refuse the beach chair to sit cross-legged beneath the umbrella and sketch seascapes, later to turn some of the sketches into delicate, iridescent watercolors. He followed her prideful walk up the beach. As with everything she wore, her bathing suit was modest, hiding her shape. Though he detected little change, she insisted that the pregnancy had deformed—Henkei shi ta—her body. She didn’t dwell on it, and if it weren’t for the loose clothes that she preferred to wear, in contrast to the revealing dress of their dating days, Hugh would have thought that she wasn’t aware of it at all, though he suspected, considering the sharpness of her occasional self-criticism, that she wanted him to be aware. She wanted him conscious of her flaw. But it was only at the beach, where her pronounced concealment betrayed her self-consciousness, that Hugh took notice. Hugh scuttled backward like a crab, carrying his sons deeper into the water, so that the yellowish suds came up to their chests. He shook and bounced them until they were near hysterical.

Jesus, he loved their warm little bodies.

“This is where it all began, guys,” he whispered, gazing at the safety rope that Setsuko had held as she floated upward to catch him in her legs. “Conceived among sharks, my little boys. Well, your mama says it began so.”

The Tempter was docked in Holiday Marina, a small anchorage less than two hundred yards from the beach. A concrete walkway and chain-link fence ran perpendicular to the quays. Hugh reached the gate to the first dock and paused to watch an elegant sailboat pull out of its slip, the water rushing across its hull. He placed his hands on the gate and let the metal’s heat burn his skin. Failure rose in his gut like bile. An ultimately fruitless quest, like those that drove on the steadfast but hapless detectives who trudged through the noir screenplays he once wrote. His sons were gone and beyond recall. It was irrational to believe that he’d find even a trace of Takumi and Hitoshi after all this time. He stopped, a gloom settling on his intentions. He had no chance. He was like—it came to him, the boys’ favorite cartoon. He was like Road Runner’s Wile E. Coyote. Having vaulted off a cliff in pursuit of the bird, he was trying to find purchase in the thin air but succeeded only in climbing to the top of his vaulting stick, which upon pivoting left him at pole’s bottom again, plummeting ever downward to the dusty canyon floor where Coyote’s previous falls had etched the sand.

There must have been dozens of Tempters not for sale. The odds were low that the boat he was about to view was the Oceanside vessel. Better that he go home and turn spotlights on his house.

To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.

For an instant he took solace in that promised death, that green current passing over him, or the earth packed around him, the bugs tunneling through his moldering corpse, a city’s cold dark thoroughfares. But at the periphery of his vision, Hitoshi and Takumi swam toward him, Setsuko’s letter fixed to his fingers, crayfish roamed beyond their domain, the honeysuckle, Nakamura Reality, the boys on the boat, Jason.

Hints, surely, but hints of what?

No, he knew. Be honest, Hugh.

He had no choice. He had to believe in the absurd quest. Click my heels three times and believe.

Two minutes later, he was at the gate of Dock Three Thousand. He dialed Albert’s number.

The phone rang a half-dozen times.

“Hello?”

“This is Mullen. I’ve come to see the boat.”

“You make an appointment?” asked a rough, sleepdrenched voice.

“Last night.”

“What’s the name?”

“Mullen. Pirie Mullen.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Where are you?”

“Outside the gate to your dock.”

“Um. Give me a minute and I’ll buzz you through. Last slip on the right.”

It was several minutes before the gate buzzed and unlocked, the click like an errant heartbeat. Until now, his thoughts had been tangled, snagged on their own implications. He could not avoid the idea that his sons had been taken. An opportunist. A barren couple or lonely man who wanted a child to nourish. The news frequently reported childless women snatching infants from hospital incubators. One could almost sympathize. But there were others whose carnal and sadistic desires recognized no boundaries. That was the black sickening thought he couldn’t accept. If you believed the radio talk shows, the predators were behind every tree, at the wheel of every dark van, at the helms of yachts trolling the beaches. Drugged and bound. Hidden in a shed in the high-hedged backyard. Forced to—his thought shriveled up. He couldn’t bring his imagination to that foul place. But why hadn’t he considered it then, in the days after? No, it was no mystery. He had accepted their deaths because he was responsible for their deaths.

He had accepted and he had lost his mind. Not with baby steps like Alzheimer’s, but all at once as the abortionist’s machine sucks out a fetus. Behind his back they whispered zombie.

Hugh walked down the quay, taking in the vessels. On half of the boats there was activity, middle-aged men in polo shirts and shorts inspecting winches and inboard motors. Pretty young women applying sunscreen and brushing their hair. Day laborers lugging supplies aboard for voyages to faraway, exotic places. An old man with rheumy eyes and gray beard looped a line around his hand and elbow, smiling at Hugh as if he knew a secret.

The boat sat between the fingers of the outermost slip, bow abutting the dock. Hugh glanced from the pilothouse to the forward hull, reading the boat’s name: Pearl, in arced black letters against the ivory hull. Showing through the white paint at each end of the arc were faint traces of additional letters. Or was he imagining the pale letters? He walked to the end of the dock where the transom was visible. Pearl again with the faint trace of other letters. He looked up at the eye-catching pilothouse. Even among the larger and no doubt more expensive crafts, the boat stood out. It evoked speed, breaking limits. The Pearl rose and fell in the backwash of a monstrous motor yacht.

“Impressive, huh?”

A shirtless man stood at the Pearl’s transom, pointing to the yacht motoring by. Hugh’s lips felt dried and cracked.

“How—big was that?” Hugh managed to ask.

“Ninety feet. That’s as big as this marina can handle. That what you’re looking for?” asked the man.

Hugh turned his gaze from the oversized yacht and pointed to the Tempter.

“I like this,” said Hugh,

“You ever been on one?”

Hugh hesitated. “No.”

“I’m Albert Abe.”

“Pirie Mullen.”

Hugh took Abe’s hand, big and soft as an oven mitt.

“Come onboard,” said Albert. “I’ll give you the twenty-dollar tour.”

Albert could have been Hugh’s age or ten years younger, his age deferred by a deep tan and gravity-defying pompadour. Amerasian for sure, but finer than that Hugh couldn’t guess. Albert smelled of alcohol and a swampy cologne.

“You own a boat now?” asked Albert.

“No.”

“You have, though?”

“No. Never.”

“Like making your first car a Shelby Cobra,” said Albert, picking at his pomp. He examined something between his fingertips and then flicked it over the side.

“I’ve read about the Tempter Pilothouse,” offered Hugh.

“Reading’s not racing—or motoring. Excuse me.” He retrieved a Bloody Mary from a cup holder. He stirred the drink with his celery, sucking the red from the stalk before taking a gulp.

“Make you one?”

“Thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Coffee?”

“I’m okay.”

“Good. I ain’t got any. Let’s make you salivate,” said Albert, gesturing for Hugh to follow him.

“Now here,” said Albert, as they entered the pilothouse, “is what makes this baby special.” Albert spun. “Three-hundred-and-sixty-degree visibility. Air-conditioned, two Cat Vision monitors . . .” Albert recited a dozen features. “Beauty, huh?”

Hugh nodded and asked polite questions as Albert touted his merchandise.

“How long have you owned the boat?” asked Hugh.

“Eight years for me, twenty years in the family.”

“Long time.”

“My father bought it new.”

“It looks new now.”

“Takes a shitload of work. My old man drummed that into me. Last thing he said was to make me promise to take care of the boat. Loved it, he did. She was his mistress. He couldn’t part with it. I can. How serious are you?”

“Pretty damn serious,” said Hugh.

“You want to go for a ride?”

“Sure.”

“Give me five minutes,” said Albert, exiting the pilothouse.

When he returned, Albert took a helm seat and ordered Hugh to sit in its companion. Albert started the engines. As the owner maneuvered his boat from the dock, Hugh studied Albert’s hair, which looked like nothing so much as a gathering wave, blacked with crude oil. Hugh wondered if it was fake.

“Elvis,” said Albert, catching Hugh’s gaze.

“Oh?”

“Vegas.”

“You’re an impersonator?”

“It’s just a goof. Bunch of us go out there a couple of times a year.” Albert’s head swayed and he bellowed, “Well, since my baby left me. Well, I found a new place to dwell. Well, it’s down at the end of Lonely Street at Heartbreak Hotel . . .”

In a quarter hour, they were motoring past the breakwater. On the rocks, fishermen held their casts to follow the boat’s progress.

“Hold on now,” said Albert as they reached the open sea. The engine went from a throb to a roar as the bow rose. The acceleration pushed Hugh deep into his seat. The hull slapped the water, flinging up great white bells of ocean.

For a moment Hugh was caught in the exhilaration of speed. The shore receded. They were on the open sea. They continued at that speed for another five minutes. Albert pulled back on the throttle.

“Here, take over. I’m going below to mix up another drink.”

In Albert’s absence, Hugh steered due west. When after five minutes Albert didn’t return, Hugh moved the wheel a degree to the right. The boat responded. The speedometer read fifteen knots per hour. Albert had had it up to sixty. Hugh increased the speed. He drew in a lungful of the moist, salt-drenched air. The sky was the faintest blue and went on forever. Over the rushing air, he heard his sons’ voices.

“This is a cool boat,” said Hitoshi.

“Let me drive,” said Takumi.

Were you here, boys? Was this the boat that took you?

“Get the fuck away,” said a muffled voice.

Hugh backed off on the throttle. He looked around for Albert, though it wasn’t a man’s voice Hugh had heard. He had heard a voice. It wasn’t in his head. Someone had shouted. He looked at the deck.

Albert came back carrying two Bloody Marys. He handed one to Hugh, who took it without protest. Hugh sipped the drink as he piloted.

“Three hundred thousand is a deal for this,” said Albert.

“Like buying a home,” said Hugh.

“Better than a home. You can’t buy a shitbox in LA for $300,000. The slip is no more than homeowner’s fees: three hundred a month. No property taxes.”

A quarter mile away a pelican glided across the ocean’s surface.

“How does it handle in rough water. I mean storms.”

“Like a bullet through plasterboard.”

“Have you always kept the boat at the marina?”

“Most of the time. Redondo now and then. San Diego once.”

Hugh swallowed. “In 2000?”

“It was in the late nineties. Could have been 2000, I guess. Why?”

“I thought I saw it there. Oceanside.” He wondered if Albert would see his heart ramming through his breastplate.

“This boat sticks in the memory, but still that’s a long time.”

“Yeah . . . a long time.”

Albert took a step back, looking over Hugh as if he were about to take him on in a fight. “What do you do for a living?” asked Albert.

“I’m—I’m a teacher.”

“Professor?”

“Middle school.”

“And they pay you that kind of money?”

“I’ve got the money.”

“Independently wealthy?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“Give her the gas then.”

“That’s all right.”

“Give her the gas.”

Hugh eased back the throttle. The engine roared. The bow leaped, obscuring the sea.

“If you turned the wheel fifteen degrees now, what do you think would happen?”

“Don’t know.”

“You’d flip us. We’d both be dead men.”

The hull beat on the sea, sending up white flames. Hugh pulled the throttle. The boat left the water altogether, gliding above like a seabird.

“Easy now,” said Albert, putting his hand over Hugh’s and pushing back the throttle. The bow dropped. Hugh was breathing hard. He steadied himself.

“Was Pearl its original name?”

“That was mine. Before that she was the—Jesus, what the hell was that name?”

Pearl . . . earl . . . real. The name floated into Hugh’s consciousness as if from the bottom of the sea. “Reality,” said Hugh.

“Reality! That’s right. Reality. How the hell did you know?”

“I told you. I’ve seen this boat before.”

“When?”

“Summer of 2000.”

Albert squinted, shifted in his seat, glanced sharply at Hugh, and then shrugged, his face drained of interest.

“Funny name for a boat,” said Hugh. “Why did your father choose it?”

“No idea,” snapped Albert.

“Would it be possible to see below decks?” asked Hugh, as Albert finished tying the boat to the dock.

Albert glanced at his watch. “Love to show you, but I’m running late. Got to meet my lawyer in Century City.”

“Just a quick look?”

Albert shook his head.

“I’ll give you an answer within twenty-four hours,” said Hugh.

“Five minutes. In and out,” said Albert, leading Hugh below.

“Galley and eating bar,” said Albert with a sweep of his arm. “Pardon the—untidiness.” He pointed forward to a small closed door. “In the forepeak you’ve got the guest berth. Queen-size bed and shower.”

Hugh grinned. “May I see it?”

“Not today,” said Albert. “Let’s take a look at the salon and then I’ll show you the master stateroom.”

Hugh gazed at the forward door, which seemed to expand as if about to explode in the way they depicted such a thing in cartoons. Albert called for him to follow, but Hugh froze as from behind the door came a distinct cry.

“Guest,” explained Albert with a wink.

“Ah,” said Hugh. Of course. Why not?

“Impressive,” said Hugh, as he followed Albert into the salon.

“Custom-made for the boat.” Albert flopped down on the salon’s leather couch and slapped the fabric. Hugh walked to a bulletin board covered with photos which depicted the Abe family on the boat in different marine settings. There were many children, who grew older or younger with each photo, but his sons were not among them. Perhaps Abe had been following his boys for some time. Perhaps it was because they were beautiful half-Japanese boys, his predilection. From the photos, Hugh picked out Albert’s father. White-haired and trim, the older man was deferred to by the others whom the camera captured. Albert was in several photographs: a slimmer, healthier Albert, whose Asian features were more discernible. Had Hugh seen either of them twelve years ago? He closed his eyes and let the projector display a hundred scenes from those days, but there was no Abe, no Albert. At the top right corner of the bulletin board were several photos that contrasted with the other happy scenes: a funeral. A large headstone, the family gathered around a gravesite, a procession of cars driving through the gates of the cemetery: Ornate letters spelled out High Meadow. Hugh stepped closer to the photographs.

“My old man’s funeral,” said Albert over Hugh’s shoulder.

“Where?”

“Where what?”

“The cemetery. Where is it?”

“Simi Valley. Why?”

“Nothing.”

But it was not nothing. He remembered the brochure in the trunk. He remembered Gina’s voice, the regular Thursday evening phone calls. But hell, how many people were buried at Forest Lawn? Perhaps High Meadow could rest as many thousands.

Albert clapped Hugh’s back. “Sorry, but I’ve got to throw you out.” He directed Hugh back toward the galley. Hugh stopped to gaze at the forward door.

“Here you go,” said Albert, stretching over the rail to hand Hugh a manila envelope. “It’s got all the information you’ll ever want on the boat. Copies of maintenance, repairs. Everything.”

A boy of fourteen skateboarded down the dock. Hugh followed his progress, glancing at Albert, who was also looking at the boy.

“Good-looking kid,” said Hugh.

“Hey, Satch, come here,” Albert called to the kid.

The boy leaned back on his skateboard, skidding to a stop. He kick-turned and faced Albert. “Yeah?”

“I’m missing an iPod.”

“Don’t look at me.”

“You or one of your buddies.”

“Ain’t me.”

“Come here.”

The boy picked up his skateboard and strutted over.

“Here’s the deal. You get me my iPod back or you find yourself another boat to crash in when your father is looking to kick your ass.”

“Dude, I wouldn’t rip you off.”

“Find it.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Yeah, you ask around.”

The boy shrugged, dropped his skateboard and zipped away.

“Sorry, man. What were you saying?”

“Nothing,” said Hugh, his insides in knots.

Albert tapped the envelope in Hugh’s hand. “So, you’re interested?”

“It’s a hell of a boat.”

“Good. By the way, what happened to your face?”

“Surfboard.”

“Be careful, man.”

Hugh set his foot on the ladder. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Good.” Albert checked his watch. “Gotta run.”

Hugh walked down the dock, glancing back to see Albert descending into the boat’s interior.

On Mother’s Beach, Hugh sat on the sand near the children’s play area, from where he could see the Pearl’s transom and some of the dock. But he had a clear view of the walkway and the entrance to the tenants’ parking lot.

No more than ten minutes had gone by when Albert strode down the walkway and entered the parking lot. Hugh waited another ten minutes.

At the gate to the dock, Hugh didn’t hesitate, vaulting the gate like a yachtsman who didn’t have time for such bullshit. Smiling at all those he passed, Hugh boarded the Pearl without incident or question.

Clasping the door handle, Hugh turned. “Bless you, Albert,” he whispered as he drew back the door. The light was on in the galley. The guest berth door was still shut.

Hugh took out his cell phone and set it near the sink.

He knocked on the forward door. Nothing. He knocked again.

“Go away, Albert,” said a voice from the interior.

“I’m not Albert. It’s all right.”

Something clattered in the room, followed by a thump.

“Do you need help?” asked Hugh.

“Who the—”

The door swung open. A woman of about forty, her body wrapped in a red sheet, stared in bewilderment at Hugh.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.

Hugh stepped back, unsettled by the sheet as much as by the woman. Blood red. Lurid. “I’m sorry. I came to see the boat. I think I left my cell phone here. I just came back to—”

Hugh smiled with embarrassment and looked around. “Jesus, I see it. There it is.” He scrambled over to the sink.

When he turned back, cell phone in hand, the woman had stepped out of the room and the sheet had fallen a couple of inches, partially exposing her breasts, across which a violet rash spread. Her perfume made Hugh’s head throb.

“Want a drink?” asked the woman, tightening the sheet but not pulling it up.

“All right, sure,” said Hugh.

“Let me change.”

Leaving the door open, she dropped the sheet on a chair. Her body appeared and disappeared as she gathered some clothes. She came out a minute later in an oversized T-shirt, no less revealing than the sheet. The rash seemed to spill over the T’s neck, but it may have been just a stain. When she closed the bedroom door with her hip, he was glad.

“I’m Janet,” she said, moving to the bar. “What you in the mood for?”

“A beer is fine.”

“I’ve told you my name, what’s yours?” she asked as she scanned the refrigerator’s shelves.

“Hugh,” he replied, forgetting he was Pirie.

“Hugh. Hugh Grant. Hugh Hefner. Hugh Laurie. Do you watch that show?”

“House? I’ve seen episodes.”

She popped a beer and handed it to him. He watched her pour a vodka and tonic. Drink in hand she moved close to Hugh.

“Skol.”

“Skol,” Hugh repeated.

She sipped her drink, looking at Hugh over the rim of her glass. “I love that show,” she said.

“It’s very funny.”

“Yeah. I like all those mysterious diseases. If I ever get sick, I mean, really sick, I hope it’s from a mysterious disease.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve had a dull, dull life. If I’m going to go out, I want it to be with a little suspense.” She tilted her head forward and moved closer, brushing her breasts against his chest.

May I lick your rash, ma’am? Just tell me something.

“Aren’t you afraid Albert will come back?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t mind.”

“Sexually open?”

“Albert or me?”

“Albert.”

She touched Hugh’s lips. “Albert is a libertine. You know what that is?”

“Anything goes?”

“You got a Facebook page?” she asked.

The bedroom door opened and a breeze swept the cabin. The red sheet had fallen to the floor, fluttered under the draft. “No. I don’t use that stuff.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I avoided e-mail as long as I could.”

“Why?”

Hugh shrugged. “Just not me, I guess.”

She squinted. “You look like somebody. Eric Clapton. Anybody tell you that?”

“Once or twice.” The rash was creeping up her neck. Gonna take an ocean of calamine lotion . . . “So with Albert anything goes?”

She pushed her index finger into Hugh’s mouth. He tasted confectioner’s sugar.

“Not anything. Not anything.” She grinned. “No animals or that.”

The fucking sheet billowed, grew wings. “Boys?”

“Boys?” She took her finger out of Hugh’s mouth and pressed it to her tongue. She sucked for a second and then drew it out. “Am I wasting myself on you?” she asked.

“What makes you say that?”

“You into boys?”

“No. I was wondering if Albert was.”

“It’s an odd question.”

“He’s not, then?”

“No way, José. I suppose he’d be into young girls if he could get them, but he can’t. He’s stuck with me. But you could do worse.” She put her hand against Hugh and kissed him. He held the kiss for a minute and then slipped his lips to her ear.

“Nakamura Reality,” he whispered.

“Umm,” she said.

“Mean anything?”

“Sure. That’s where me and Albert met.”

He eased her from him. “What?”

“Albert and me got together at NR.”

“You worked there?”

“Sure. I was a clerk.”

“And Albert?”

“A honcho—though he didn’t know shit. That’s what happens when your father runs the company. Nepotism, right?”

“Right—fuck. Mr. Abe was like the CEO?”

“I guess. Something like that.”

“Does Albert still work at Nakamura?”

“Nope. They booted his ass out when his father died. Then they threw me out for good measure. Too bad, it was a fun job. I met Steven Spielberg once.” She grabbed Hugh’s ass and squeezed. “You a runner?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”