"No," he said, "there's something off about him. I wanted to check him out on the computer this morning, but I got called to the market two-eleven at six-thirty. First thing I do when I get back is play computer games. Got an address for him?"

"Ken said Studio City. Are you still going to check out Trafficant?"

"Sure, why not? I'm already pushing buttons."

"Poor Lucy," I said. "Another hurt."

"Yeah," he said. "Hurt seems to be on her dance card."

It was 1 P.M. when I got back to Malibu. While stopped at a red light near the pier, I caught a look at Shooting the Curl's facade. White building, blued windows. A sign with fat white letters spelling out the name over a mural of a wet-suited surfer riding a big wave.

Paradise Cove was ten miles later. A neon sign on a tall pole pointed toward the beach. THE SAND DOLLAR Breakfast Lunch Dinner. Impulsively, I turned off.

A dipping road took me past an acre or so of wildflowers, then a trailer park shaded by huge shaggy eucalyptus. Between the trees, the water was flat and silver. Another hundred feet and I came up against a guardhouse and a lowered wooden arm. A sign said the beach was private and it would cost $5 to go any farther unless I was eating at the restaurant.

The kid in the guardhouse stuck his head out. His nose was peeling and his sunglasses were mirrored.

"Sand Dollar," I said.

"Five bucks." He handed me a ticket. "Get this stamped and I'll give it back to you when you leave."

I drove down the final slope to a big wide parking lot. The restaurant was down at the bottom, set on the sand, a wood-shingled shuttered thing with a Happy Hour banner above the door.

Inside was a dark waiting area carpeted in red felt, paneled in cheap wood, and hung with salt-eaten nautical gear. No one was waiting, but a cigarette was smoldering in an ashtray. To the right was a cavelike bar with a couple of people bellying up and watching stand-up comedy on cable. Straight ahead was an empty host's stand and, beyond that, the restaurant.

The main room was gigantic, the way L.A. restaurants used to be before the land boom, with two long rows of red brass-buttoned booths and the same felt carpeting. The entire beach wall was glass. A big storm, several years ago, had sheared off one-third of the pier. The remains jutted over the water. A few tourists sat on the beach. The people in the restaurant looked mostly like locals, but there weren't many of them and they were distributed thinly.

A couple of waitresses were working, one young and redheaded, the other in her fifties with a squat face and cropped gray hair. Both wore pink blouses, black pants, and red aprons, their sleeves rolled up, their eyes tired. A busboy collected dishes from a table in the far corner.

The host was a tall, heavy, white-bearded man. He noticed me and stopped talking to a busboy.

"Lunch for one," I said, and he took me to a window booth.

The older waitress showed up a few minutes later, all business. I ordered the Angler's Breakfast, $10.95 (Served All Day): deep-fried red snapper, eggs, hash browns, juice, and coffee. The food was good and I tried to eat slowly. By the time I finished, the restaurant was nearly empty and the waitress was nowhere in sight. I finally spotted her in the bar, smoking and watching TV, and gave a wave.

She came over, looking peeved. Her name tag said DORIS.

I handed her a twenty and the parking stub and she went to get change. Pulling out Best's data sheet, I scanned the names of the restaurant staffers.

Doris Reingold?

When she returned, I said, "Keep five for yourself," and got a big smile.

"Thank you, sir, how was your meal?"

"Excellent."

"The Angler's one of our popular ones."

"I can see why… looks like things are pretty quiet today."

"It goes up and down. On Sunday no one gets in without a reservation."

"That so?"

"All the Hollywood people show up- they're over at their beach places for the weekend. Barbra Streisand sits in that corner. She's tiny. We get chefs, too, like the guy who runs La Poubelle. They bring their kids. I keep telling Marvin to raise prices, but he won't."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "Old habits. We'll probably be closed down by next year anyway. Marvin's not healthy, and they keep after him for the land. It's worth a fortune."

"Too bad. I'll have to come here more often while you're still open."

"You do that. I could use customers like you." She laughed. "Live around here?"

"Just moved in," I said. "Near the county line."

"On the beach?"

I nodded.

"Ooh, that's pretty. I pass by there on the way home to Ventura. Own or rent?"

"Rent."

"Me too. Only the millionaires own, right?"

"Better believe it. Been working here for a while?"

She pulled on a jowl and grinned. "It shows, huh? But I won't tell you exactly how long, so don't even ask."

I smiled back. "So what'll you do if it closes down?"

"I don't know, maybe catering. All those chefs, there's always something comes up. Not that I look forward to that."

"You don't like catering?"

"Big hassle. Used to do it years ago. Friend of mine- she worked here too- used to get catering jobs for herself and anyone else who wanted them. Good money, but a big hassle." She winked. "Marvin never liked our moonlighting. We did it behind his back."

"I'm thinking of throwing a housewarming party, could use a good caterer. Who's your friend?"

She shook her head. "She doesn't do it anymore. Got rich- owns her own business."

"Lucky her."

"Yeah."

"What kind of business gets you rich nowadays?"

She smiled at me. "You're living on the beach, what do you do?"

"Psychologist."

"Oh." She winked again. "So maybe I shouldn't be talking to you."

"Don't worry, off duty," I said.

"You know," she said, "I wouldn'ta tagged you for that. I figured you for a lawyer or the music business or something." Fingering her apron pocket, where the tip had gone.

"I used to play in a band," I said. "Cocktail lounges. I know what it's like to depend on people's generosity."

"Ain't that the truth. And most of the time, people aren't. That's what I hated about catering parties. You see people at their worst; to them you're a stick of furniture. And no tips. One collective service charge. If the boss isn't honest, you're sunk."

"Was your friend honest?"

"Which- oh, her. Yeah, honest enough."

"You must have seen some interesting parties, though. Working around here."

She reached for a cigarette. "Mind?"

I shook my head. She lit up.

"Maybe to some it was interesting. All it was to me was serving and clearing and people sticking their hands in my face." She shook her head and looked back. "Want more coffee? Maybe I'll have some myself. Marvin's in the john, as usual."

"Love the company," I said.

She got the pot and another cup. Sitting down opposite me, cigarette fuming, she poured for both of us.

"It's been real nice working here," she said. "So close to the ocean."

"How're things in Ventura?"

"Dying. Who knows, maybe I'll move. Got two grown boys, both in the army. One's in Germany, the other's near Seattle. Or Nevada. I like Nevada; things are booming there."

"Your rich friend can't help you find anything?"

"Nah, like I said, she's out of it. She and her husband own a surf shop- nothing for me to do there."

"Shooting the Curl?"

"Yeah, you know it?"

"I've passed by. Doesn't look like a big business."

"Believe me, it is. They've got a place right on the sand at La Costa – own, not rent- and that ain't Spam salad."

She took a deep drag as her eyes swung toward the window. "Here we go again."