BY TEN THE following morning my phone was still silent.

Either my Brooklyn Pizza lens work had paled in comparison to some new lead Milo was chasing or, given the benefit of a good night's sleep, he'd decided the snapshots were a waste of time. Still, it was unlike him not to call.

Robin was smiling again, and we'd made love this morning—though I'd felt some distance. Probably my imagination.

When in doubt, torment your body. I put on running clothes, stepped out into a cold, wet morning, and struggled clumsily up the canyon. Shoes squeaking on still-dewy vegetation, stumbling along the earthen patchwork laid down by a fast-shifting sky.

When I returned the house was echoing hollowly, silent but for the whine of the circular saw from Robin's studio. I changed into a sweatshirt, old jeans, and grubby shoes, stuck a Dodgers cap on my head, and left.

The air had chilled even further, and the sun hid behind a big, iron saucer of the same sooty hue as yesterday's cloud bank. A tongue of wind whipped past me, rattling trees, twanging shrubs. The earth smelled of loam and iron. Not winter in any real sense, but in L.A. you learn to live with pretense.

On days like this, the ocean was still beautiful. I took Sunset to the coast highway, encountered no obstruction, and was speeding past Tony Duke's copper octopus by twelve-thirty. No cars were parked on the shoulder, and all the gated estates looked forbidding. Continuing to the Paradise Cove intersection, I turned onto the speed-bumped asphalt that dips down past Ramirez Canyon and ends at the beachfront clearing where the Sand Dollar sits. As I passed the restaurant's plastic sign, I noticed a rectangle of whitewashed plywood staked a few feet in, painted crudely in red.

The Dollar's Renovation Continues.

Sorry, Folks. Please Remember Us

When We Re-open This Summer

I bumped my way past the oleander-planted berms that nearly concealed the trailer park on the north side of the cove. No chain had been slung across the blacktop, and the splintered placard warning that beach parking was twenty bucks a day if you weren't eating at the restaurant appeared in its usual spot, bottomed by the halfhearted announcement

BOOGIE BOARD, SNORKEL, AND KAYAK RENTALS. So far, so good.

West of Spring Street, renovation usually means extinction. The Dollar was going the way of all L.A. landmarks, and I didn't know how I felt about that.

It had been nearly three years since I'd tackled a fisherman's breakfast from the red-vinyl cradle of a Sand Dollar window booth. Back in the days when Robin and I had rented a drafty beach house ten miles up the coast, as we waited out the reconstruction of our burned-out home. Then a patient's childhood nightmares drew me into a long-unsolved abduction and murder, and the victim turned out to be a waitress at the Dollar. The questions I'd asked had overridden six months of generous tips. Some time later I'd dropped in for breakfast again, hoping all had been forgotten. It hadn't, and I never returned.

I drove fifty more yards, and the shack that serves as the Paradise Cove guardhouse came into view. The lowered gate was more symbolic than functional—I could've lifted it by hand, squeezed the Seville through. I wondered if it would come to that. Then I saw movement through the shack's window, and the attendant was ready for me when I drove up, shaking his head and pointing at yet another sign that reiterated thetwenty-dollar tariff. Older man—seventy-five or so—with blue eyes and a beef-jerky face shielded by a battered canvas hat. Big band music played from a tape deck in the shack.

"Closed," he said.

Down below, through the twisting branches of giant sycamores, I could see ocean and what remained of the restaurant: The redwood facade and half of the shingle roof were in place, but empty holes gaped ulcerously where the windows had been, and through the wounds was a clear view of walls stripped to the studs and snarls of severed electrical conduit. What had once been the parking lot was now a table of raked brown dirt filled with backhoes, tractors, and trucks, sheets of plywood, stacks of two-by-fours. No workers in sight, no construction noise.

"Big project," I said.

"Oh, yeah," said the old man, stepping out of the shack. He wore a khaki shirt and gray twill pants cinched tight by a skinny maroon vinyl belt. "Didn't see the sign, huh? They should stick it right out front on the highway, so folks don't bother to turn. I'll raise the yardarm and you can swing a U-ey."

"I saw the sign," I said, and held out a twenty.

He stared at the bill. "There's nothing to do down there, amigo."

"There's still the beach."

"Not much of it. They got wood and cement blocks and all kinds of garbage piled all over the place. Haven't even had a decent film shoot in months—only thing they could film right now would be a disaster movie. They might be hotshots, but someone's not making money."

"They?"

"Corporate syndicate."

"How long's it been going on?"

"Months. Almost a year." He looked back at the site. "Owner died, kids inherited, squabbled, sold out to some chain seafood outfit, and they sold to some holding company. They say they're gonna preserve it, make it even better. Mostly, I see guys in suits driving in and out. Every so often they bring in a squad of Mexicans and there's some hammering and nailing for a few days, then weeks of nothing. But they keep paying me, and they don't bother the rest of us who live up there." His thumb hooked toward the mobile homes. "Be nice, though, to have somewhere to eat out without driving to Malibu Road."

"Yeah," I said, waving the twenty. "Gonna take a look, anyway. For old times' sake."

"You're sure? I don't even think the Porta Potties are working."

"I can handle it."

"Wait till you're my age— Nice car. Take much maintenance?"

"Just a bit. It's old but it works."

He smiled. "Like me." He started to take the money, shook his head. "Aw, hell, forget it—someone asks you, though, you paid."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me, just change the oil every two thousand miles and keep that thing alive."

I parked south of the construction zone, well away from the heavy machinery. Gulls picked and pecked in the dirt, and a dozen more birds perched noisily atop what was left of the roof. The shingles that remained were wind-warped and salt-grayed and shit-specked. The birds looked happy enough, squawking and jockeying for space.

I got out, righted my baseball cap, and ambled south along the cove, veering diagonally toward the waterline. Medium tide. No beach chairs like in the old days, just plenty of open, creamy sand. The ocean was even lazier than yesterday, oozing in slowly like a giant glue spill, its retreat discernible only as the gradually deepening stain of water-saturated silica. Off at the southern edge was anothe'r shack, white-frame like the guardhouse and not much larger. The blackboard bolted above the door was crowded with sloppy script in that same bright red, proclaiming, KAYAKS! SNORKELS! WET SUITS! COLD DRINKS! Rusty hasp, bolted. I kept walking. Walls of bluff rose behind me. Against the dirt stood a bank of five bright blue plastic Andy Gumps—three of the latrines marked HIMS, two, HERS. Next to the male loos was a large pile of something under layers of bright blue tarp.

I headed toward what was left of the Paradise Cove pier. A few storm seasons ago the gangly structure had been wind-sheared in two, the jut-tying face washed out to sea and never replaced. Now the remains, condemned and blockaded by count}' chain link, were a listing, bleached skeleton, the vantage point for yet more noisy gulls and a big, solitary, dignified-looking pelican who'd distanced himself from the din.

A squirt of light hit me full-face as I walked across splotches of yel-low sand. The glare made me squint and lower the brim of my cap. False dawn in the afternoon. The flying saucer cloud bank had reversed direction—gliding out toward Japan and leaving behind a pink-pearl residue through which sun struggled to leak. The light that made it through was glossy, almost liquid—squibs of golden ointment.

Even in this ruinous state, the cove was a glorious bit of geography. Thinking of what Tony Duke and his neighbors owned, I sighted down the coast, aiming for a glimpse of the beach estates that claimed the bluffs. But the shoreline curved sharply, and the only home I spotted was a single glass-and-wood thing on stilts, squat and aggressive, ovoid as the cloud bank.

A door slamming from the direction of the latrines made me turn, as a voice behind me said, "Cool, huh?"

I completed the swivel, focused on a red-tan stubbled face. A wiry, midsized man wearing only baggy red swim shorts, standing a few feet away, swinging a key chain. Fat-free torso, corded arms, knees deformed by calcium knots. Coarse peroxided hair with black roots was a crown of thorns above his narrow face. His sharp nose was crooked and zinc-whitened, and a puka shell necklace circled a gullet starting to sag. The stubble on his chin was white as the zinc. Forty, maybe older.

"You were checking out that Starship Enterprise deal, right?" he said, eyeing the house on the sand. "Know who owns it?"

"Who?"

"Dave Dell."

"The game-show host?"

"The game-show host and mega-gazillionaire—guy started out as an AM disc jockey, bought up Malibu land back when Lincoln was president, got himself a sweet chunk of bluff, man. He's partnering with the dudes who're doing that." Cocking his head at the restaurant renovation. "Downtown dudes."

"Nice investment," I said.

"That's what they live for—more and more and more. Borrowing someone else's money." He laughed. "Thing is, except for that house of his—Dell's—all those humongoid things are on bluffs and most of them got no beach at all. They got their views to China, but they don't have serious sand because of the way Paradise is shaped. Even the ones that dogot some, and even at low tide, it ain't much—little squares where you can sit and watch your money wash away. 'Cause the whole damn beach is disappearing."

"Really?"

"You bet, man. Inches each year, maybe more—you never heard about it?"

"Sounds familiar," I said. "Global warming or something. I wasn't sure it was true."

"Oh, it's true all right. Global warming, El Nino, La Nina, La Cu-caracha, the ozone layer, all that shit. One of these days, we're gonna have this conversation from La Brea."

He laughed again and shook his head. The yellow thatch was salt-stiff, and it didn't vibrate. "Meanwhile, a bum like me's got all this sand for free, and they got their little private patches of nothing— You actually pay twenty bucks to come down here? Didn't Carleton tell you everything's closed up?"............