Justice Dig (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 9)

by Rex Bolt

  “Okay look,” Finch said. “Off the top of my head?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Call him back, invite him for a sit-down. Throw him the grand, and sweeten the pot somehow . . . Bottom line, satisfy the guy. Nothing worse than a lingering grudge.”

  “Directed at me, you’re saying.” Chris knew the old guy was right, unfortunately. His own experience had reinforced that a couple times, the lingering grudge business, how those were bad for everyone’s health all around.

  Finch said, “Of course though, how are you going to call him back?”

  “Good point,” Chris said, “we better head down to the pier. Or at least I better.” Remembering what the wife said, that the dude was on a bike today, meaning he likely had locked it up down there and would be going back to retrieve it now.

  Chris and Finch stood and Chris cleared their table, doing his duty and throwing the plastic in the designated recycle bin.

  “You trust these things?” he said.

  “Not at all,” Finch said. “Regular garbage is always mixed in.”

  “My thought too. I’m worried it’s all for show. Starbucks, they’re even worse, actually, less confidence that they’re helping the planet.”

  Just then the movie/pier guy came storming in, clearly not a happy camper.

  “Jeez,” Chris said. “We were about getting ready to intercept you.”

  “Is that right,” Regan said. And he approached Chris, maybe fifteen feet away now, scooting around the first row of tables--son of a gun, it sure did look like the guy was getting ready to unceremoniously throw a punch.

  Chris hadn’t been good at avoiding those. He flashed on Joyce’s boyfriend, the wine guy and apparent bodybuilder, at the foot of his staircase on Broderick . . . Then there was the Reno-supposed-husband of the gal who performed in the casino in Wendover--what the devil was her name . . . but the fake band name was Luella and the Capris, Chris remembered that.

  That one there, you mostly blocked out, no idea what he was trying to accomplish showing up and ringing the bell.

  And actually, now that it was registering a little bit, the husband hadn’t exactly punched him with his fist, it was more like he picked up a fireplace log and used that. In fact Chris had been admiring the cozy fire blazing away in the guy’s living room up to that point.

  Either way, with Joyce’s friend he was lucky it hadn’t been worse . . . and of course the second one was where he ended up in the hospital briefly . . . but the point being, both cases, he’d been terrible at anticipating--and more importantly avoiding--the blow.

  Had there been one more incident too? And we’re talking the last 13, 14 months, since he’d gotten that seemingly fateful diagnosis in Billy’s office and angled his life in a decidedly different direction.

  Oh yeah . . . the storage guy belted him in the face too. Jeez. The guy accusing Chris of selling a phony painting. It wasn’t of course, but Chris supposed he deserved it, having forgotten the guy in the storage unit on Aviation Boulevard, a fairly remote spot actually.

  Chris had low blood sugar after he’d first confronted the guy and locked him in, and the idea had simply been to get a bite at the pizza joint in Hermosa and go back and release the idiot . . . but he had too much on his mind apparently and didn’t remember the guy until the next day--make that two days actually, Chris recalling for some reason that the lock-in had been a Monday--and by Wednesday he was a third of the way up Highway 5 toward San Francisco . . . and at this point not sure what that trip was all about, but giving it a little thought, it was the high school reunion-Jerry Smith deal.

  So being pinned give or take 60 hours, okay that gave you the right to punch someone in the face.

  At any rate . . . that was three. Now the movie guy looked awful restless and was closing in at maybe 8 feet, and oh Jeez, he’s rubbing his hands together, going into some kind of street jive . . . and putting it together real quick, the guy had a bit of a New York accent, likely Brooklyn, which was where a lot of these Hollywood movie guys germinated once upon a time . . . and those Brooklyn guys had grown up in pretty basic circumstances, the elevated subway rumbling by their apartments every couple minutes, and Chris figured they unfortunately would know how to mix it up.

  “Sir . . . Sir!”

  Luckily someone was intervening. It was a kid from behind the counter, not the main coffee person but the helper who wiped down tables and popped in and out of the back-room kitchen. The kid was about 5’7, 135 pounds, with stringy red hair and glasses and a pimply face.

  But the kid got between Chris and Regan and stuck both arms out fingers-up like a ref separates fighters in a boxing match.

  Regan hesitated and smiled slightly at the kid. “Yeah well, out of my way Popeye, if you don’t mind.”

  The kid stood firm. Chris couldn’t help it, he was nervous for the little dude (not to mention for himself) but also admired the kid’s nerve, and you had to say something.

  He said, “Son, whatever they’re paying you . . . you know what I’m getting at.”

  “What you’re saying,” a new guy who Chris hadn’t noticed, said now, out of his seat and coming toward the action from behind Regan, “is being a company-man ain’t close to being worth it.”

  Regan was fixed on what was in front of him, likely figuring if the kid backed off or even moved slightly he could deliver the big right hand he’d been saving up for probably a while now, to the bottom of Chris’s jaw.

  So Regan took slightly too long to look around and see what this other voice was all about, and by that time the new guy--turning out to be a middle-aged weather-beaten surfer type, with the white T-shirt with the stripe across it right out of the ‘60s--got a right arm around Regan’s throat and locked it up using his left.

  Regan grabbed at the arm but there wasn’t much conviction behind it, and his eyes started to roll backward, though that could have been Chris’s imagination. Either way, he was at least temporarily under control.

  Finch spoke up. “That’s impressive, I must say. You don’t look like the type.”

  “I get that comment,” the surfer guy said, not able to move his mouth too much, which Chris figured applying an MMA choke on a guy would limit. “I had an incident 3 and a half years ago, decided I better learn a few moves.”

  “Well, you never know, I guess,” Chris said.

  “You got that right,” the guy said. In another situation Chris would have asked him what his incident was that motivated him, there could be an interesting story behind it . . . but not here.

  Chris didn’t know how it worked, the anatomy of choking off the carotid artery and whatnot, but to a layman at least, the guy looked passed out. Chris said, “Do you suppose, you should lay him down or something?”

  “Probably so,” the guy said. “Though how much time’s gone by? Roughly.”

  “Enough,” Finch said. “I agree with my friend here . . . Let’s not go so far as to commit a homicide, or anything.”

  “Not sure about that,” the employee kid said, his arms still instinctively stuck out separating Chris and the guy. “Isn’t it, kinda, self-defense that we have going on here?”

  “Come on!” Chris said. “You’re starting to freak me out.” And the weathered surfer dude reacted, thank God, and released the hold and eased Regan down to the floor.

  The main coffee person was out from behind the counter, with a damp rag and a bunch of ice, and after a minute you could see Regan starting to flutter his eyelids and come to, and you were reasonably convinced he was going to be okay -- though Chris often wondering in those MMA bouts, were there any long-term implications to being submitted, such not being able to remember your wife’s name before that first cup of coffee after you’ve turned 35 or so?

  At any rate, the developing problem now was Chris could hear a gal off in the corner, her coffee and the LA Times spread out in front of her, on the phone, not talking particularly loud, but you could make out enough that she was unfortunately speaking with the
police. Giving them the old who, what, where and why.

  That was an issue for sure these days. No one could do anything anymore without some well meaning but nervous-Nellie hooking up to something electronic and either videoing you or reporting you or all of the above.

  Chris announced: “Again kid, thanks, you have a lot of guts . . . And you too, appreciated it.” The second part directed at the surfer guy with the chokehold, though Chris wasn’t sure he really did appreciate it now that cops were on the way. He might have been able to quick-talk Regan those last couple steps and resolve it peacefully -- though who knows.

  Either way Chris was on his way out the door and Finch caught up to him on the sidewalk. Chris said, “It seemed reasonable to make a move. I better find a bank. Maybe not right around here, if you know what I mean . . . I didn’t ask you, but you don’t have a car or something, do you.”

  “I hear you,” Finch said. “Nope. I hoof it back and forth every day. I told you my routine, right?”

  “Okay let’s can the routine at moment, how about?”

  “I see . . . well, my suggestion is simply to take a side street. A couple banks I can think of up by PCH.”

  “Sorry to jump down your throat,” Chris said, and they turned left up the hill and made sure to go a couple blocks before turning right along the side of Von’s supermarket, so that right turn wouldn’t be viewable from the Coffee Bean if anyone back there was so inclined to wonder.

  They ended up zig-zagging onto North Crest Drive, and a couple blocks turned into 6 or 7 and Chris knew a Citibank for sure in Hermosa Beach, and the old guy was agreeable to go the extra mile or so, and they went there instead.

  Chris said, “Good to walk level when you can. The hills back to my apartment, they’re starting to screw up my knees, I think.”

  “I don’t have any trouble there,” Finch said. “Other issues, or course, yes.” Which kind of pissed Chris off, this guy being 25 years his senior at least, maybe more, Jeez, if the guy was all the way into his 70’s.

  “What I’m thinking,” Chris said, “I withdraw the grand. Then I’m ravenous, let’s get a bite. And yeah, I suppose come up with something to sweeten the pot. Unfortunately.”

  “Good thinking,” Finch said, though it was 100 percent his idea, but Chris wasn’t going to waste time straightening the guy out.

  The machine only let him take out $800, and Chris was tempted to march into the branch and say what the heck, but Finch volunteered to come up with the extra 2, and used his own card.

  “You’re a better man than I thought,” Chris said, “and obviously I’ll pay you back, but right now -- where do you want to eat?”

  “I’m not particularly hungry,” Finch said, “I try to space out my meals. The digestive processes and all.”

  Chris didn’t need to hear this, but the good thing, he wouldn’t have to spend a lot of money on their lunch, which would limit the residual damage of an already disastrous financial day.

  In fact the pizza joint should work fine, and Chris started walking Finch that direction . . . except wow, you didn’t want to let the Regan business continue to stew, did you?

  “You still got that guy’s phone, by any chance?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact,” Finch said.

  “You’re poker facing me,” Chris said.

  “Well . . . seeing as how it was on our table, when you got up to confront the gentleman, it seemed reasonable to pocket it.”

  Chris smiled, for the first time in a while. The old guy had some moxie to him. But was there any advantage in having the thing? You never know. Probably didn’t hurt, generally speaking, not to have the cops rifling through it, piecing together the call they made from the Coffee Bean to the guy, and the guy’s wife . . . speaking of which.

  Chris figured what the heck, and dialed the wife. No, she said, she still hadn’t heard from him, and repeating again that Sundays are his bicycling day. She did then ask if everything was okay, not seeming real concerned, and Chris said oh yeah, nothing like that, and they cordially hung up.

  “Think the guy’ll remember his bike, at this point?” Chris said to Finch.

  “Oh I’m certain he will.”

  “That gives me confidence.”

  Finch said, “There’s a series I’ve been reading, poorly done in my view, but trashy enough to keep me going. The main character is an ex-cage fighter turned private eye. This comes up occasionally, what you’re asking.”

  “Oh . . . You mean, how long it takes to get the faculties back, after being choked into unconsciousness?”

  “Exactly. Typically the individual is rendered limp and confused, but the apex is within the twenty minute mark. After that, mental acuity returns at least in part, but normally in full.”

  “You’re saying,” Chris said, “if I intercept the guy now, he’ll remember what we had going, and understand what the grand is all about? . . . And that should close the door on it?”

  “It should,” Finch said, “provided the deal-sweeter you alluded to is included.”

  “That’s sort of what I didn’t want to hear,” Chris said, but he knew the guy was right. And picturing it play out back there . . . yeah, a couple cops probably did show up, nothing that crazy-urgent since there wasn’t any active fighting going on, or blood on the Coffee Bean floor . . . and they’d probably speak to the employees first, and the explanation would be this gentleman came barging in, fixated on an existing customer, and another patron interceded with a wrestling hold, thereby diffusing the situation.

  Naturally the cops would ask who the existing customer was, so there’d be a bit of a description, but likely no big deal since the existing guy didn’t do anything . . . and if anything the cops would be more interested in the surfer dude getting physical, and Chris could see it soon enough being resolved and the cops leaving, and telling everyone next time let’s stay cool . . . and to have a nice day.

  That would mean if Finch’s 20-minute recovery deal was in the ballpark, the guy would be ambling down to the pier, remembering the bike -- and Chris, by now, back in focus as well.

  So . . . you better intercept the son of a gun, and take care of this.

  “This is a little awkward,” Chris said to Finch, “but can you give me an hour or so, and we’ll get that lunch?”

  Finch laughed. “Son, I can give you all day. I actually enjoy the sights at Hermosa more than Manhattan.” Pointing toward the beach and slightly to the left.

  Chris didn’t want to ask, but he suspected Finch was referring to the female skin on display. There was an area just off the Strand down here, kind of a circular plaza, and there were people working out, dancing, jumping around, whatever else, and you did admittedly see all manner of interesting attire jiggling around and doing its thing. Chris enjoyed the sights at Manhattan fine, but yeah, things were a tad more conservative there in that regard.

  But back to this. Chris figured he better throw in the phone too, not leave this deal open-ended, and Finch handed it over and told him take his time, no worries.

  It killed Chris to have to consider it, but you better run. Not sprint, necessarily, but maintain a steady jog clip . . . putting the timeline together, even a sprint might be questionable if the Coffee Bean scenario unfolded relatively smooth and didn’t detain the guy too long. One interesting sidelight of course -- they’d just hauled the guy in and made him pay that fine, so they might be interested what the same guy was now doing charging someone, and yeah, maybe that would slow things down a bit.

  Chris used to be a semi-serious jogger. In fact the Damirko ocean-drowning scenario wouldn’t have worked if it weren’t for jogging.

  But shortly after moving to Manhattan Beach he started to question the logic, and opted for walking, good enough, and sometimes power-walking like he’d been doing today when he ill-fatedly struck up a conversation with this Regan.

  But that was the extent of it, no real aerobic work in several months, and man the lungs were burning as he lumbered back
back north on Highland Avenue. The quads too, tightening up bad on him. Criminy.

  But he made it, and if it was a mile the way he understood it from pier to pier it sure felt longer, and maybe it was longer -- but the point being he did see the guy when he got up on the Manhattan pier, except the son of a bitch was on his bike and riding away, two or three hundred yards back toward Marina Del Rey and where the guy had said he lived, so at least his brain was working right in that regard.

  So he’d almost pegged it right, the business with the cops, but he hadn’t used his own brain obviously, and now you’d just given it an Olympic marathon effort and came up short.

  Some guy was coming his way, along the Strand, on one of those electric skateboards, and Chris made a snap decision and blocked the guy so he’d stop, or else run over Chris.

  “Whatta ya doing, Pops?” the guy said.

  And Chris didn’t like this, being called Pops yet again, since that was part of what set him off the second day here . . . but not important right now.

  “Sorry about that,” Chris said. “But I’ll give you . . .” Looking in his wallet, only a dollar bill in there at this point, and you weren’t going to insult the guy. “Make it a hundred bucks, you catch me up to a guy riding a bike.”

  Very unpleasant to have to dig the C-note out of the new wad in his pocket that was earmarked for Regan, but Chris handed it to the guy, and the guy smiled and shook his head, like I’ve seen everything now . . . and Chris balanced on the back of the board, and it was pretty dang scary, the guy motoring at a good clip and Chris acutely aware that it wouldn’t be good to fall off.

  Reagan came into view and Chris pointed him out and the skateboard accelerated even a bit more, and the guy dropped Chris off, and luckily Regan wasn’t pedaling very fast, and seemed to be looking at the ocean more than anything.

  “Hey!” Chris said, and he didn’t react at first, just kept riding, and Chris wondered if he was going to have to start running again, to contain the idiot, but Chris called out more forcefully, including his name, and Regan stopped and looked around.