The Goodbye Coast

Marlowe drove north on Pacific Coast Highway, heading into Malibu. Eleven thirty in the morning and he was a brick in a brick wall of traffic. It was one of the reasons he almost passed on the meeting. Driving from Hollywood to Malibu and back again was the same as being dead for three hours.

It used to be impossible to get to the beach itself. The big houses were packed in like library books and the wealthy residents blocked access with locked gates and PRIVATE PROPERTY signs. The California Coastal Commission had a difficult time convincing the owners that living on the beach didn't mean they owned the beach itself. For decades, celebrities like Dick Clark, Mel Brooks, Jack Lemmon, Olivia Newton-John and David Geffen fought efforts to let the public use their own beaches. In the end, the public won. Even so, ordinary folks were only seen occasionally. The locals grew azaleas in front of the COASTAL ACCESS signs or blotted out letters so they said COAL ASS.

Marlowe's potential new client was Kendra James, a full-on movie star and all that implied. Homes here and abroad, Bentley and a Prius in the garage, the latter to show her concern for the environment, vacations in Ibiza, on Lake Como and Richard Branson's private island and a personal trainer named Steely Dan who sometimes stayed over. She had a separate closet for her six hundred pairs of shoes. Money will protect you from everything, Marlowe thought, except Mother Nature, love and tragedy. Six weeks ago, Kendra's husband, Terry, was murdered, shot to death on the beach right in front of their home. Terry was forty-three years old.

Marlowe turned off PCH onto Malibu Colony Road. The houses weren't especially impressive from the street, many of them fronted by a bland stucco entry and a driveway. It was deceptive, however. The homes were huge, lavish, median price on the waterfront was almost thirty million. Marlowe had an innate dislike for the wealthy. Their power, privilege, their firewall of conscienceless attorneys, their wretched excess. Marlowe liked nice things but not immoderately, not over-the-top. Somehow, this made him a better person but he wasn't sure how. He passed the public entrance to the beach; a twenty-foot stretch of listing chain link fence. He was surprised it wasn't cloaked in camouflage netting with OPEN SEWER signs next to the gate.

Marlowe arrived at Kendra's place and parked on the road. He hesitated. He didn't want to go in. The idea of meeting a celebrity repelled him. Why? he thought. You don't even know this person. You're being prejudiced, a victim of stereotypes. He'd heard David Beckham was a good guy. Same with Dave Chappelle and Penélope Cruz. Maybe meeting Kendra would be a good experience or, at the very least, interesting. Marlowe waited for his mood to change but the insight made no difference. He didn't want to be here. Reluctantly he got out of the car. "Here we go," he sighed.

Kendra James was sitting on the sand drinking another Bloody Mary. She stared blankly at the flat, gray sea, gray clouds drifting mournfully overhead. The last few weeks had been a terrible ordeal. She was surprised at how much she missed Terry. She'd kicked him out of the house and filed for divorce right after she burned up his clothes and put their wedding pictures in the shredder. She despised him right up to the moment she put a rose on his casket.

She sensed someone was there, like a change in temperature or a breeze through an open window. She turned her head and looked up.

"Hello. I'm Philip Marlowe," he said, a note of regret in his voice. He reached down to shake hands.

"I'm sorry, I don't shake hands. I'm something of a germophobe," she said. "Thank you for schlepping all the way out here. I don't leave the house much these days." She would have made him come out here if she'd been in France. She patted the spot next to her. "Have a seat, Mr. Marlowe. Join me."

"No thank you. I don't want to get sand on my clothes," Marlowe said. He was wearing a dove-gray suit, obviously handmade, black silk tie undone, a milky-white Egyptian cotton shirt, thread count in the 180 to 200 range, and bespoke oxfords, shined but not shiny. Kendra wasn't used to being refused but she'd forgive him this time. She respected nice clothes.

"Let's go up on the deck," she said. Oddly, Marlowe didn't seem the least bit intimidated and people usually were, even if they'd known her for a long time.

As they crossed the sand, she noticed Marlowe was wearing a vintage Patek Philippe Tiffany rectangular watch. Her father had one just like it. The entry gate was held shut with a commercial-grade padlock and a heavy chain. Kendra did the combination, huddling over it as if Marlowe might want to rob the house one day. She led him up the side stairs to the living room. She liked showing the house to newcomers. The great room was an acre of white marble floor, sleek furniture that seemed to defy gravity and art pieces that were hard to differentiate from the furniture. Visitors invariably made a comment. It's so beautiful! The view is magnificent! Marlowe said nothing. In fact, he seemed to resent being here.

They went out on the deck and sat at a table shaded by an umbrella. For a moment, neither of them said anything. She gave him one of her favorite looks; a half smile, percipient and slightly amused, as if to say, I'm way ahead of you, buddy boy. Marlowe met her gaze and she was instantly uncomfortable. His eyes were the kind that took in everything but gave nothing away, the kind that didn't notice but inhaled; the kind that weren't neutral, but assessed, gleaned and adjudicated. She couldn't help staring. To break the spell she said,

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Black coffee," Marlowe said.

"Lucy, are you there?" she called.

Marlowe had presence, she decided. Surprising for someone who was probably in his early thirties. He was very good-looking, but he wore it differently than the other handsome men she had known. It was as if he was unaware of his appearance and would be surprised if someone remarked on it.

"Lucy, where are you?" Kendra said irritably.

Marlowe was looking off, distracted, as if he was bored and thinking about something other than the A-list celebrity sitting right in front of him. Disrespectful, Kendra thought. She wondered why her father had insisted on him. His quiet intensity was appealing. He reminded her a little of Steve McQueen if Steve McQueen had been a rude, insolent asshole. "Lucy! Are you there?" she called louder.

Marlowe wondered why Kendra didn't walk ten feet to the open door. Moments later, the housekeeper appeared. She was dark, stout, wearing an actual maid's uniform. Black with a white collar, white apron, white cuffs on the sleeves. It was as if a Latina woman had somehow landed a part on Downton Abbey. He offered her a friendly smile.

"I'm Philip Marlowe," he said.

"Hello, sir." She was surprised he'd introduced himself.

"I don't know your name."

"Lucy Cabello. Would you like something to drink?"

"Thank you, Lucy. I'll have black coffee."

Lucy nodded and went back inside. Kendra sighed, apparently annoyed by all the civility. She looks like Grace Kelly without the grace, thought Marlowe. Aristocratic features and soft blonde hair, keen blue eyes, her lips artificially plumped, her body teetering between fashionably sexy and she should lose a few pounds. Marlowe took in the view. The sea was the color of mop water, paltry waves lapping, sea gulls fighting over something slimy and covered with sand. An elderly man with a big belly and orange cabana shirt trudged past. He was talking on the phone and watching his Labradoodle defecate in a tide pool. "The hell I'll give him points," he said heatedly.

"I've heard you can be prickly," Kendra said, as if that were something charming. "May I call you Philip?"

"Call me Marlowe."

"In fact, Marlowe, I've heard you were a rude, impolite boor."

"What's your point?"

"My point?" Kendra said with a laugh. "We're going to be working together and it would be nice if we were at least amicable."

"We'll be working together in the sense that I'm doing the work and you're going about your business," Marlowe said. "This is not a movie project. There will be no meetings, script notes, conference calls or explanatory emails. I do my job and when I'm done, I call you." Now that he'd met her, he almost wanted to get fired.

Kendra glared. Marlowe knew what she was thinking. Nobody talks to Kendra James that way, not with a billion dollars in ticket sales on her résumé. She was probably on the verge of saying do you know who I am? Marlowe had seen a video of her saying that to a highway patrolman. It sounded terrible. She might as well have said, I am a world-famous celebrity and you're a turd on a motorcycle. Lucy brought their drinks out on a silver tray. Marlowe's coffee and a Bloody Mary for Kendra. She hadn't asked for one. Apparently, it was assumed.

"Thank you, Lucy," Marlowe said.

"Lucy, have you seen Pav?" Kendra asked.

"No, señora."

"He's supposed to take me to a premiere tomorrow night. I have to tell him he's working." She sipped her drink and sighed glumly. "I don't know. I might not go. I wish I had a movie out. What will I talk about?"

Lucy and Marlowe exchanged a glance and she went back inside. Kendra caught it and scowled.

"I can cut this short," Marlowe said. "If you wanted to talk about Terry's case, I can't help you. Your best bet is the police."

"No, this is not about that philandering dimwit, it's about his daughter, Cody. Two weeks ago, she ran away."

"Two weeks," Marlowe said. "The first of the month?"

"I suppose. She stays out overnight but never this long. I've tried to reach her, of course. Phone, email, I left messages. I'm really worried about her."

Marlowe's bullshit detector emitted a loud buzz. Kendra sounded urgent but not sincere.

"How old is Cody?" he asked.

"Seventeen but she comes off as older. I've reported it to the police but they don't look for runaways. It's ridiculous."

"Running away isn't a crime, there's no law to enforce. Do you have a picture?"

Kendra passed him her phone.

"This is pretty recent," she said. Cody was sitting on the hood of a car. She had a boyish figure, pale skin, high cheekbones and green eyes, her expression like a European model, faraway and indifferent. She wore black jeans, Gothy makeup and a T-shirt that said DAS BUNKER. Her hair was styled like a Japanese anime character. Short, dyed black with a purple sheen, jagged layers and jagged bangs angled over her eyebrows.

"I'll email you that one and some others," Kendra said. Somehow, Kendra had finished her drink without him noticing. She put some ice in her mouth and crunched it. She wants another one, Marlowe thought.

"What's Cody like?"

"She's spoiled rotten and not the least bit considerate, I'd like to lock her in the crate my dog used to sleep in."

"Did Cody and Terry get along?"

"Yes, they were very close. They talked about everything together. If I hadn't despised him I would have been jealous." She picked up her glass, tipped it back and drank the pink water at the bottom.

"Smart?"

"Yes, Cody is very smart. She skipped a grade, takes AP classes but she hates school. She can be devious too. I watched her play poker with Terry's friends. She pretended she was a hapless little girl and cleaned them out."

"Any idea where Cody went?" Marlowe asked.

"No. She never said anything about her comings and goings," Kendra said as if the whole topic was boring. "Make an inquiry and Cody would say something vague and perfunctory. She was very secretive."

"Terry have any other kids?"

"Yes, a son. His name is Noah. Cody's opposite." Kendra's whole vibe changed, like she was proud to know him, to show him off. "He was an excellent student, polite and very good-looking," she said. "He's an athlete too. He's playing minor league baseball in Lancaster."

"Was Cody into drugs?" Marlowe asked.

"Weed, alcohol."

"That's all? You're sure."

Kendra huffed. "If it's one thing movie stars know about, it's drugs."

"Did Cody have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?"

"Cody had a fling with a girl but she needs a penis. I never met any of her dates but—oh yes, she did bring a boy here a couple of times. Roy something. What a loser. He was probably pathetic at conception. Noah talked to him. He said Roy was probably giving Cody money. Her allowance is generous but she was always broke."

"Did Noah and Cody get along?"

"No. They were like a reenactment of the war in Vietnam. Firefights and bombing runs for years on end."

"Why do you think Cody left?" Marlowe asked.

Kendra shrugged. "Why does a teenage girl do anything?" Kendra slapped her hand on the table and said, "Lucy, where are you?" She rose, chair scraping the deck, and marched inside. Marlowe could hear her talking, severe and reproachful. He wanted to drown her in the Labradoodle's tide pool. Kendra came out with a fresh Bloody Mary. Before she sat down, Marlowe said,

"I want to see Cody's room."

They went inside and walked down a long hall. It was lined with movie posters, Silverlake Story, Love Sucks, Never Say I Do, The Coach's Wife, and others. They were all romantic comedies. A couple of years ago, Kendra attempted to escape the tedious but lucrative typecasting by accepting the part of a real serial killer named Donna Ethridge. Ethridge lured seventeen men into her aging Winnebago and cracked their skulls open with an axe handle. The reviewer in the New York Times described Kendra's performance as "rather like watching my nine-year-old niece pretending to be a robot."

"How does my father know you?" Kendra asked.

"I'm not saying," Marlowe said. Her famous blue eyes flashed red.

"Why not?"

"For the same reason I won't talk about your case with him."

Cody's room was no more organized than a basket of dirty laundry. Random belongings scattered, stacked and flung everywhere. You could hardly see the floor. "I don't know what you can tell from this mess," Kendra said. Evidently, Cody liked clothes. A fortune's worth were strewn around, enough to wardrobe a movie about Ivanka Trump. Almost everything stupidly expensive. A $4,000 Fendi Peekaboo bag hanging on a chair. Marlowe had recovered one on a robbery case. A box labeled KINGSEAL. Probably sealskin shoes, Marlowe thought. Maybe they were waterproof. A MacBook Pro was stuck in the wastepaper basket, a lone Jimmy Choo waited on the windowsill. Such careless wealth, Marlowe thought. An oddity. A catcher's protective vest half under the bed. Noah played minor league baseball, it was obviously his. Stealing his equipment is a helluva way to punish your brother. The poor guy must have gone crazy looking for it. Kendra was bored. She went into the hall calling for another Bloody Mary.

There were also vintage T-shirts, clunky black Frankenstein shoes and studded belts. There were posters on the wall. Two bands. Rites of Spring and Moss Icon. One was of a sad Batman. The caption: My parents are dead. Marlowe looked in the bathroom. It was like the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale's. A cluster of colored soaps in a silver bowl, the brands imprinted on them. Dior, Côte d'Azur, Elemis and Lava. Lava? There was also a lot of black makeup. Eye shadow, mascara, lipstick. Maybe that explained the Lava.

Kendra returned with another drink. "Christ, I had to go all the way to the kitchen."

"Did Cody have money?" Marlowe asked.

"She took a couple of hundred out of my bag, and maybe three out of my desk drawer," Kendra said. "She also stole Lucy's car."

"Did you replace the car?"

"Yes, I replaced it," Kendra said indignantly, muttering in a lower voice, "with a car of similar value."

"Similar value?" He laughed. "How much did you make on your last movie?"

"Fuck you, Marlowe."

Marlowe didn't like being here. The room was like a Goodwill store in Dubai. If Kendra weren't paying him so much he'd have left right after he met her.

"I have to go," he said.