Prison Wars: An Inside Account of How the Apocalypse Happened By Martin Sanger. Martin Sänger

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СКАЧАТЬ Ocean, Northwest of Los Angeles. Though definitely in the mix of Los Angeles, Malibu is cut off from it in many ways.

      For one thing, it is a part of Los Angeles where the air is clean. It doesn’t strike one as a place where commerce happens at all. Facing a marvelous quasi-private beach, it feels like a tropical island paradise. Every home in Malibu has the perfection of homes in Better Homes and Gardens or Architectural Digest. Malibu is the sort of place that so lacks a dark side that it almost manifests one by an inconspicuous absence.

      And yet Malibu doesn’t give you that foreboding sense other rich suburbs have. That’s because it is permeated with a very homespun, country nuance. Ostentatious homes tend to make us not-so-rich folks to feel like we should know our place. In many rich communities I am ever so slightly, but consciously, aware that if I don’t comport myself well, if I am not on my best behavior, I may be taken for a criminal or member of a lower order and possibly arrested. Malibu doesn’t create the sense of paranoia other suburbs do.

      When I arrived Quentin and Melissa were having coffee on the back porch of their home. The white lattice woodwork and well-placed ivy is one of the reasons my description is so apropos. Their having enough money to create as great an approximation of heaven as they wished didn’t result anything but good taste and a nice home. I felt very comfortable.

      As I approached, Quentin came up and embraced me! Melissa politely stood up and gave me a not too strong handshake.

      Melissa is a beautiful woman. She had a one-piece bathing suit with a plaid shirt tied around her waist. Her beauty is that of the Malibu country-style natural sort. Her auburn hair is full, and it bounced all the way down to her chest. Her eyes are so light brown that her pupils really stand out. And you can tell that she spends a lot of time in the sun. But being slightly wrinkled by the sun only added to her rustic wholesomeness

      “So. You are Marty!” She smiled, shook her head, and emphasized several words via pacing, as though I was a really pleasant surprise. “Quent has really taken a shine to you.”

      “Looks that way.” My reply was accompanied by a somewhat nervous glance at Quentin. His smile was reassuring and they held hands.

      “You must be a pretty great guy then.” She said staring right into my eyes.

      “Aww, gee shucks.” My comfort level at receiving love wasn’t all that high and Melissa was really direct about relationship dynamics. That was a direct extension of her country robustness.

      It really felt awkward to me. Awkwardly, as if to deflect it, I returned the compliment, “And he being such a good judge of character, I must also then be in the company of a really special lady.”

      I realized that she had only been smiling with her eyes as the full compliment of her teeth came out.

      “You work for Fortune magazine?”

      “Yeah. But Quentin wants me to work for him. And with all this charm and love, I feel somewhat like I’m crawling into a spider web.”

      “We don’t bite. We’re cool people. You should think about it.” Melissa offered earnestly.

      “I am.”

      We all sat down together on their porch and had some coffee while we waited for the children. She asked and I told her about my slow rise to being a junior reporter on the Fortune staff.

      “Hard work! Now that’s the way, eh Quent?” She shot out with a gentle mocking and a humorous glance at his eyes with hers.

      “Yes dear. Diligence and sweat are the stuff of manliness.” They both laughed: he a short guffaw and she a twinkling snicker.

      “I guess you guys think that’s the fool’s way up the ladder.” I queried somewhat hurt.

      “I don’t think Quent’s ever worked more than four hours a day. He likes ideas.”

      “Other people’s ideas.” Again they both laughed in unison.

      “They do the work. He smiles at them.” Their love was really evident. They spoke as one person speaking to himself. They looked at each other with big smiles. The look she normally gave him always intertwined with headshaking appreciation of his greatness. The look he gave her was always intense and somewhat silly.

      “That’s the hard work of the venture capitalist.” He said, faking a reluctant admission with total joy and self-satisfaction.

      “Speaking of hard work, where are we going today?” I had been saving that question for a time when I was feeling a need for a change in discussion. That is a little reporter trick I’ve developed. Always have an ace question in the hole.

      “The beach, Zuma!” Their simultaneous answers were the verbal analogue to the vines interwoven on their lattice.

      “But I . . .”

      “But you don’t have any shorts. We know, we know.” She was a great motherly type. They smiled at each other and then Quentin continued their thought.

      “Then go into the guesthouse, over there, and you’ll find some new shorts on the bed.” I turned and visually followed the path of Quentin’s finger. There I saw a little white guesthouse that had previously escaped my notice.

      When I turned around, they were both smiling at me like parents from a portrait. She finished their thought, “And while you’re there, check out the house. That’s where you’d be staying if you accepted our offer of your staying with us and working for Quentin.”

      What does one say to such a statement? “Oh, okay. I will. And I’ll be right back.”

      “Take your time, families don’t move according to schedule.” I nodded with a crooked suppressed grin in response and headed down the path.

      As I walked down to the home my head spun with questions. Were they really serious? Could I just leave my job and responsibilities back in Nebraska? What was my home going to look like? Would I be happy here with the perfect family? Was this really happening to me? I came back to my decision to jump on this opportunity that I had arrived at the night before.

      The guest home opened into a nice little living room / dining room combination with an adjacent kitchen. The fixtures, chairs, and rug were nearly all white. The kitchen was separated by a bar counter with bar stools. The front windows opened up to shrubbery that largely obscured the big house. I went to the other room, but there was no exit there. Coming back, towards the entrance I spotted the hall to the bedroom. And there on the bed were red swim trunks with blue trim on a king size bed.

      This was true.

      When I got back up the hill, feeling somewhat embarrassed to have my white hairy legs exposed, Melissa called the kids. “Kids, come on out, were goooiiiing.”

      “So what dya think of the place?” One of the couple asked.

      “Great. I could be happy living there.” I smiled broadly. This was not a mannerism that I traditionally had in my repertoire. But I was glad to feel that I was melting into their crowd.

      “Fantastic.”

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