CHAPTER 1
Los Feliz was hip, that’s what they said. Happening. Caleb guessed he knew what that meant, probably. It was a white kind of hip; not cool exactly, but nice, definitely one of the better places to live in Los Angeles. Better than Culver City, that was for sure. It was laid-back and busy, always new places opening but still had the old joints that had been around for ever, like the Dresden and the Vintage film theatre. Is that what they meant? Whoever they were.
Los Feliz was immediately below Griffith Park and just east of Hollywood in central LA. It was a neighbourhood where people actually walked. Not like Beverly Hills Gateway or Trousdale, where Caleb would most likely get arrested for walking. Or like Westmont or Chesterfield Square, where he might get shot. It was okay. Safe. Nice. Hip.
The big bonus was that it was the kind of neighbour-hood where he could actually walk onto someone’s lawn without the cops getting called or a dog getting set on him. That was important because lawns were his business.
It wasn’t exactly a career and he didn’t plan on doing it for ever, but for now it meant cash to put him through school. It meant enough green that he could help out his mom and, on a good week, still spring for burgers for two on a Saturday night at HiHo if Lacey could get the night off.
He was saving the planet too. One lawn at a time.
Caleb’s job was simple. And hot and hard and dull. He’d cycle around in search of front yards where the owners were respecting the drought and not watering their lawns. He thanked them for it by way of a patronising little sign that was supposed to encourage the neighbours to do the same. Every sign meant money.
Los Feliz was one of the areas that could be relied on to give a damn, so it was good pickings most weeks. Liberal lawns, that was what was really making America great again. He’d spend five days working every street within the Los Feliz boundaries, North Western Avenue to Hyperion, Loz Feliz Boulevard to Fountain. The next week, he’d cross the freeway and tour Atwater Village. The next two weeks it would be the sprawl of Silverlake. Just him and his second-hand Schwinn and as many signs as he could get into his backpack.
Loz Feliz was his favourite of the three neighbourhoods. No hassle, traffic okay by LA standards, good people and the bonus option of an occasional lunch break in the shade of Griffith Observatory when he had the time to make the trek up.
He wasn’t sure he’d want to live here even supposing he ever had the money, and that wasn’t too likely. Sure it was nice and all, big houses, a cool place to hang out, but it just didn’t seem like a place he’d live. It was too quiet and that would drive him crazy. He’d need to hear folks yelling at each other or it wouldn’t seem like home at all. Still, all Caleb cared was that it was good for his wallet and most weeks it was.
He was on Finley Avenue now, going east to west towards the bars and restaurants on North Vermont. He’d walk, cycle, walk, whatever it took. Most times he could tell from the saddle if the selfish assholes had soaked their lawns, seeing them lush and cursing them. The section between Hillhurst and Vermont was usually good for a couple of stakes though, so he was on foot, pushing the Schwinn and with Drake banging out into his headphones.
Watered. Soaked. Hosed. Wait, there. Dry and bare. Nice.
The house was just back off the street, dark wooden timber and white sills, with a square of parched lawn gasping in the heat of the afternoon sun. There was no sign of anyone around, no gate, no fence, just an easy two strides from the sidewalk to the grass. Caleb laid down his bike and slipped the pack off his back.
He positioned the small stake on the faded turf and drove it into the baked earth with two blows of his mallet. The sign was forced grudgingly through what was left of the grass, its message displayed to the neighbourhood.
Job done, Caleb paused for a moment to admire his work. He didn’t really care all that much about the message. It was a good thing, he guessed, but he was more interested in the fact that twenty signs, all verified by photographs from his phone, meant sixty dollars. The message meant money.
He slipped his phone from his back pocket, stepped back to get the house into full view and took the photograph. The lawn was suitably dry, a bleached shade of grass that he liked to call dollar green.
He knew the wording on the sign by heart and could even recite it backwards if called upon to do so.
You’re awesome. Your neighbourhood thanks you for not watering your lawn during this drought. You’re saving everyone else, not just water.
Caleb took another photograph, making sure he got the house number in clearly this time. It was slightly shabby for this part of town, a millionaire dressed like a tramp, curtains drawn and a set of shutters closed. It could have done with a lick of paint too. Still, at least the owner was helping save water by letting his lawn go to seed.
Caleb could tell how long it had been since a lawn had been watered, it was like his own science. Even under a September sun, it didn’t take long at all for the blades to turn towards yellow and the moisture to be sucked from the earth. Five days this had been, that was his best guess. Six at the most.
Maybe that doesn’t sound long, but in Sprinklerville it was an age. For the grass, it was a lifetime. For Caleb it was three bucks.
‘You’re awesome.’
Yeah, awesome. Fool couldn’t even find the time to open the curtains properly and let some light inside.
Caleb bent to pick up his bag of signs and was on the rise when, from the corner of his eye, he saw someone move between the slight gap in the curtains. This could be bad – people weren’t always best pleased to have something stuck in their lawn unasked. It might even mean losing the three bucks.
He froze, mid-rise, and tried to wait it out, hoping he hadn’t been seen. Not that he was doing anything wrong, but he hadn’t exactly asked permission either and didn’t want some crazy with a shotgun rushing out and yelling at him to get off his lawn. It seemed okay, the door didn’t open and no one banged on the window.
When he stood fully, he couldn’t see anyone. Maybe he’d imagined it. No. Wait. There it was again, movement, definitely. He held up a hand in apology or greeting or something, he wasn’t quite sure what. No one waved back.
He took half a step away but was drawn back immediately as he saw a dark shape dance in the shard of light that split the drawn curtains. It wasn’t a person, but what the hell was it? He edged closer, seeing the shape sway and change direction. Caleb strode warily across the lawn until he was just a few feet from the window and could make out the shape. It was flies, a business of them, flitting across the window pane as one.
He couldn’t say quite why, but they freaked him. So many of them and so agitated. He moved till he was right at the window and saw them close up through the glass. Eight, no nine, of them were on the pane, their spindly legs scratching at the surface. At least another twenty of their brothers and sisters fogged the air.
Caleb slowly removed his headphones and could hear them clearly, buzzing like an army of tiny electric saws. This was wrong. Weird. His skin bristled and his heart pumped faster.
He pressed himself up against the glass, making an angle so he could see more of the room through the gap. He saw nothing but furniture and paintings, nothing until he followed his eyes and his instincts, seeing where the flies were thickest.
There was something on the floor below him, a shape immediately recognisable yet unbelievable. Caleb’s breath exploded onto the window pane in shock.