DAWN IS on the ocean and tangerine and rose spread along the dusky blue horizon as if the sun is a broken egg. Rudy Musil pulls his combat green Hummer into Lucy’s driveway and pushes the remote to open her electric gate, and instinctively he looks around, looks everywhere and listens. He doesn’t know why, but he is so unsettled this morning that he jumped out of bed and decided he would check on Lucy’s house.
The black bars of the metal gate slowly roll open, shuddering at intervals along the track because it curves, and although the gate is curved too, it doesn’t like curves, it seems. Just one of many design flaws, Rudy often thinks when he comes to Lucy’s salmon-color mansion. The biggest design flaw of all was the one she made when she bought this damn house, he thinks. Living like a filthy-rich damn drug dealer, he thinks. The Ferraris are one thing. He can understand wanting the best cars and the best helicopter. He likes his Hummer, for that matter, but it’s one thing to want a rocket or a tank and another thing to want an anchor, a huge gaudy anchor.
He noticed it when he pulled into the driveway but he doesn’t take a second look or think anything about it until he pulls past the open gate and gets out of the Hummer. Then he backtracks to pick up the newspaper and sees the flag is up on the mailbox. Lucy doesn’t get mail at her house and she isn’t home to put the flag up. She wouldn’t put the flag up even if she were home. All deliveries and outgoing mail are handled at the training camp and office a half hour south in Hollywood.
This is weird, he thinks, and he walks over to the mailbox and stands near it, the newspaper in one hand, the other hand pushing his sun-streaked hair down because it is in cowlicks this early morning. He hasn’t shaved or showered either, and he needs to. All night he thrashed about, sweating in bed, unable to get comfortable no matter what he did. He looks around, thinking. No one is out. No one is jogging or walking the dog. One thing he certainly has noticed about this neighborhood is that people keep to themselves and don’t enjoy their rich homes or even their modest ones. Rarely does anyone sit on the patio or use the pool, and those who have boats rarely go out in them. What a weird place, he thinks. What an unfriendly, peculiar, nasty place, he thinks, angrily.
Of all places to move, he thinks. Why here? Why the hell here? Why the hell do you want to be around assholes? You’ve broken all your rules, Lucy, every one of them, Lucy, he thinks as he yanks open the mailbox door and looks inside and instantly jumps to one side. He backs up ten feet without thinking and his adrenaline kicks in before what he’s seeing registers.
“Shit!” he says. “Holy shit!”