By Daniel E. Lieberman
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There was a touch of it here, looking down at the ocean rolling endlessly in from the horizon; here high above the beach road with its crawling traffic, its dotting of lights. The outline of beach houses zigzagged against the sky but did not obscure the pale waste of sand, the dark restless waters beyond. He didn’t know why he hadn’t come out here before. It wasn’t far. He didn’t even know why he’d come tonight. When he got on the bus, he had no destination. Just the restlessness. And the bus brought him here.
Bus. After he boarded it, he saw by his watch that it was still early, a little past eleven o’clock. There were only two passengers, working men in working clothes. Dix sat in the front seat, his face turned to the window. Away from the dull lights of the interior. Others boarded the bus as it rumbled along Wilshire through Santa Monica, into Westwood. He didn’t turn his head to look at the others but he could see their reflections in the window pane. There was no one worth looking at. The fog thinned as the bus left Westwood and hurried through the dark lane framed by the woodland golf course.
He drank again. ” Dix had listened with his face, a half smile, but he kept his eyes on his beer glass. His mouth was sharp with questions, they were like tacks pricking his tongue. Brub had finished and was waiting for him to speak. He said easily, “So you took the easy job. No investments or law for you. Sherlock Nicolai. ” Brub wailed. ” “You know Brub,” Sylvia sighed. “Whatever he does, he does with both heads. ” Dix laughed, setting down his beer glass. It was time to go. Time to put space between himself and the Nicolais.