Justice Dig (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 9)

by Rex Bolt

  The guy took a break from the first round of swearing at Chris and started a round 2, bringing Chris’s mother into it this time . . . when a guy walking by carrying a surfboard against his side swung the back end of it wide as he passed Carl -- impeccable timing actually -- and hit Carl in the nose with thing -- and kept walking like nothing happened.

  Carl didn’t exactly go down like in a boxing match, but he took a moment to ease himself there, so same deal, and there was a lot of blood, and Carl started wailing, very high-pitched too, Chris losing a little respect for the guy, and Darlene was pulling out a hanky and trying to assist.

  This seemed like as good a time as any to move on, and he exited stage-left, the same direction as the surfer guy, and he caught up to him where Crissy Field spilled out into the sailboat marina.

  Hmm. Two semi-surfer guys bailing him out of late, thinking of the incident in the Coffee Bean.

  Chris said, “That was some move, back there.”

  The guy kept walking but said, “Yeah, well. Always unpleasant when a lady gets mistreated.”

  “For a second,” Chris said, “I thought maybe you bumped him, and didn’t even realize it.”

  “Put it this way,” the guy said, “it could have happened that way too.”

  “Frankly I never thought of a surfboard as a weapon. Not the worst thing to know, I guess.”

  “It isn’t. You grow up in Seal Beach, it calls for it sometimes. You learn to handle your board.”

  Chris had been to Seal Beach once, that was Orange County, and it seemed reasonably upscale, like you wouldn’t need to use your board for anything besides catching waves . . . but whatever.

  Chris said, “The other part that was interesting, you could chalk it up to an accident -- breaking the guy’s nose for example -- if anyone happened to bother you.”

  “Maybe so,” the guy said, and he winked at Chris, indicating this conversation was over, and Chris crossed at the light and headed back to the motel. He started thinking Heck, they don’t even surf out here, there are no waves in the bay . . . they kite-surf fine, but where was the guy’s kite?

  ***

  There was a hole-in-the wall ramen place on Greenwich, up the block from the bar scene on Fillmore, and heading past all that Chris thought he wouldn’t mind a little booze, unwind from the drive and whatever else . . . and there were three bars at the same intersection, the famous Balboa Cafe being one, and Chris had tried them, various times, felt like an outsider in all three, even when he was living 6 blocks away on Broderick . . . so he passed and was slurping down some noodles when Kay called.

  “I’m free,” she said.

  “Oh . . . shall I . . . swing by and get you then?”

  “No that’s fine, Nancy has a car,” Kay said. “Where to?”

  Hmm. Maybe what she meant, she was borrowing Nancy’s car -- Chris assuming this was the girlfriend, never having been formally introduced -- but more likely, Nancy would be along for the ride.

  “Well,” Chris said, the alcohol consumption angle still alive, “there’s a friendly place, Weatherby’s. We can start off there. Or end there too, it’s up to you.”

  Chris gave her directions and Kay said we’ll see you there, which confirmed it.

  Chris neglected to mention the parking can be brutal, though he supposed on a Wednesday night in March you might have a chance, and Chris finished his ramen and took his time walking over there and Kay was out front, but no Nancy.

  “Let me guess,” Chris said.

  “I know. She’s circling around,” Kay said.

  Chris didn’t want to entertain it, but you had to be a gentleman, so he told Kay to have her double-park on the corner and he’d take it from there.

  “Very kind of you,” Nancy said, getting out and leaving the engine running. “Valet service tonight.”

  “Something like that,” Chris said, and he drove Nancy’s car over to the Broderick apartment, and he still had the key to the downstairs and the garage, and he pulled it in and that was that. There was space for three cars parked end to end, and Nancy’s was the only one there so far and the odds were all three tenants wouldn’t be home before they left Weatherby’s and needed her car again . . . but if it happened, what could you do?

  They sat at the bar, and Shep was trying to get one of the TV’s to do something, a couple guys apparently asking for a hockey game, and Chris was getting awful thirsty but it worked out and when they were all three squared away Shep said to Kay and Nancy, “This guy. He moves on me. But I see him more often now.”

  Kay put away half her margarita pretty quick and she started asking Shep questions about bartending, and did he find he was people’s therapist back there sometimes . . . and Shep didn’t mind answering, and it sounded kind of interesting, a story he was telling now, but Nancy started talking to Chris and it got blocked out.

  Nancy was certainly friendly enough, though she dominated the conversation, but she had a genuine laugh -- and another round into it, Chris started thinking maybe he liked her more than Kay. Her daughter was eight, she’d used bad judgement in a relationship back then, but she wouldn’t trade being a mother for the world . . . she worked in the Bank of America building, a high floor, you could see out to Livermore on clear day . . . she did pilates and sang in a women’s chorus.

  “Those last two,” Chris said, “they seem dated though.”

  Nancy said she wasn’t worried about that . . . but what did he mean a women’s chorus was dated . . . and Chris had no idea either, but Kay bailed him out.

  She leaned over and said to Chris, “So I get it now. This is where the idea came from.”

  “Huh?” Chris said.

  “You and Shep,” she said, “you were discussing me. How sweet.”

  For a second Chris thought she meant tonight, and then he got it straight, Shep must have mentioned to her that he suggested Chris stay in touch, following Chris’s description of the Reno deal.

  Chris looked over at Shep, who’d conveniently moved down the bar. Chris said to Kay, “Little out of character for the guy, honestly.”

  Kay said, “What’s spilled across the bar, stays across the bar, you mean?”

  “Something like that.” Shep obviously did get a bit carried away, but it wasn’t like he was disclosing family secrets . . . And it seemed okay, since Kay was now switching stools with Nancy.

  “I mean it,” she said. “That makes my day, being cast in that light.”

  This was getting a little strange, and Chris only remembered telling Shep there may have been a connection with this nurse in the hospital, except it got shorted because he had to high-tail it out of there . . . and Shep had made his recommendation.

  Nancy said this was fun, and is there another place, for some variety perhaps, and Chris thought of the Booker Lounge but couldn’t see an advantage switching over there, so the gals ordered a third round and Chris wasn’t used to this, but you had to go along.

  Finally he got them out of there and he was getting slammed, the drive and the other events of the day catching up to him, and he suggested some coffee but they said they were good and Nancy asked about her car.

  “No, no,” Chris said, “that won’t work.”

  “I know,” Nancy said, “I was just wondering where it was.”

  And that was a good point, by now the extra vehicle in the garage was likely fucking things up over there.

  Chris said either way, he’d get them a cab or an Uber, and not to worry, we’ll figure out the car tomorrow.

  “Or we could stay over,” Kay said.

  “That’d be fine too,” Nancy said.

  And Chris had no more idea what this meant than the man on the moon . . . but you go for the gusto, he supposed, isn’t that what life’s all about?

  So they headed over to the motel, and you had two double beds and Kay and Nancy didn’t waste much time, each stretching out on one, and Kay made a thin comment about thanks for hosting us tonight before she dozed off.

&nbs
p; So Chris went to the office and there you were up against the late-night method, you had to do your business using the slot through the glass, the clerk’s voice coming out of a speaker, and Chris had to book a room for himself, and as was typically his experience at these Lombard motels, once again the traffic made it a tough night.

  Chapter 10

  “Welp, I’m heading to Marin,” Chris said, “so I’ll bid you both a good day. It’s been real.” They were at the Broderick apartment. Chris had to knock on a door to get a guy to move his car, and that guy was grumpy and came down in his slippers and PJs and told Chris whatever this was he was pulling, don’t do it again.

  “For what again?” Kay said, Nancy’s car idling now at the curb.

  “I’m looking for an old friend,” Chris said. “One of those needle-in-a-haystack deals.”

  It was 10:30 in the morning. Chris had bought them breakfast, Nancy and Kay, even though he could have saved 20 bucks directing them to the little Continental thing they had in the motel lobby.

  Nancy apparently didn’t have to be at her job today with the high view in the Bank of America building . . . and why would that be . . . but whatever, he wasn’t feeling that great, you pick your spots.

  Kay said, “Trying to find an old friend? Or, like, scouting out the area on behalf of and old friend?”

  “Come on,” Chris said, “give me a break.”

  She conferred with Nancy for a moment. “I’m game,” she said.

  And again Chris wasn’t in the mood for asking too many questions and said fine, and Nancy dropped them back at the motel and twenty minutes later Chris had the Camry over the bridge and angling west onto Shoreline Highway at Tam Junction.

  “You get car sick?” he said.

  “I do,” she said. “But not if I can watch the road.”

  “That’s the key. Reason I ask, we have a coastal option and the over the hill option. One’s prettier but windier.”

  She didn’t answer, she was doing something with her phone, so Chris took the curvier way.

  It always brought back some memories, Shoreline Highway arching over and then down into Stinson Beach, plenty of switchbacks, each with a pretty dang stunning view of either the Pacific Ocean, Mount Tamalpais, or more of West Marin to the north, and on a clear day such as now you could see Point Reyes nicely, and Chris said to Kay, “Off to your right there, that’s actually the furthest point west in the lower-48 United States.”

  Kay mumbled a little something like she’d just woken up, and son of a gun.

  “You’ve been out?” Chris said. “I mean I’ve been wrapped up in my thoughts, I haven’t challenged you in a few minutes . . . but Jeez, all the turns.”

  “Wow, this is beautiful,” Kay said, straightening up. “What thoughts have you been wrapped up in?”

  “Well . . . this kid I’m trying to find. Not a certifiable kid, he’s 25, maybe even had a birthday, I lost track.”

  “You can’t call him? Contact him some other way first?”

  “Nah I tried,” Chris said. Though hold on -- had he even tried something so simple as emailing the kid? Either way . . . at this point, 99 percent odds that wouldn’t work, and might backfire on you with the police if they’re privy to his account.

  “What do you need to tell him?” Kay said.

  They were in the home stretch coming into Stinson and the stop sign was up ahead, the general store on your right and your beach access to the left. Chris said, “How about a burger?” and Kay said sounds good and there was a roadside shack type deal, still standing since Chris was a teenager, though different now, and the burgers were all dressed up and gourmet and had celebrity names attached to them.

  Chris said, “This place used to have a juke box, they’d play Glen Campbell records . . . you remember those?”

  “Which,” Kay said. “Juke boxes, records period . . . or Glen Campbell ones?”

  “Any of the above, I guess.”

  “My dad liked Glen Campbell . . . You seem to use food to delay things. That’s my impression.”

  Chris didn’t mind, her bit of spunk from the hospital room was back. “I do,” he said. “You have any better ways?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. I guess we’ll find out.”

  “What? Oh, what I need to tell my friend? . . . That’d be, mainly, stay put, and take it easy.”

  “Hmm,” Kay said.

  They rounded the lagoon and Chris pointed out a couple white egrets and a blue heron and they came to the sign, the infamous one, where you made the sharp left doubling back to Bolinas, that locals typically took down. It was up now actually, but the arrow went toward Stinson.

  “Gosh,” Kay said, when they got into Bolinas and parked.

  “The outfits?” Chris said. “Or the dogs?”

  No surprise here. Bolinas had attracted the free love crowd back in the 60’s, and probably a lot of them were dead or departed but the idea lived on with the subsequent generations. You weren’t judged if you didn’t want to wear much, or otherwise express yourself . . . and currently there were two beautiful long-blond-haired apparent lesbians walking arm in arm right down Main Street, with substantial amounts of skin and appendages on display in their full glory.

  Kay turned her head and followed them, so it wasn’t the dogs she was noticing at the moment. The thing with those, there were dozens of them roaming around, almost all loose, several right in the middle of the street, and everyone seemed fine with it.

  “Welp,” Chris said, pointing toward the beach, “we might as well try down there first . . . needle in a haystack that this is shaping up to be.” And now that you were actually here, this concept was looking increasingly far-fetched.

  “What does your friend look like?” Kay said. “I’m a good detective.”

  And he slid his arm around her shoulders as they got to the beach, and Chris figured you could justify it because the wind was whipping up a bit, and she wasn’t dressed that great, a sweatshirt, but it looked thin.

  “You always do that?” she said.

  “I was trying to pull it off, that you needed to be warmed up. That didn’t work?”

  “Not even close. But you can leave it there if you want.”

  So whatever . . . and they had a nice walk down to the end, toward Duxbury Reef, and Chris described Ken just in case, and there were a bunch of surfers out there today, and some of the rides weren’t bad, you had to admit.

  “I tried it once,” Chris said. “Right here. I was 13. My mom set me up with an older kid, local, her friend’s son. I paddle out . . . I bob around out there for a half hour . . . and I paddle in.”

  “Regardless,” Kay said, “you’re not really expanding your search. I mean for your friend.”

  “Yeah let’s try the main plaza or whatever they got now.” And they walked over there, everything striking distance, and you had an organic farm stand and a basic market and an old tavern, Smiley’s, that was there back in the day . . . and there were some odds and ends shops . . . but this big manhunt was shaping up as rather ridiculous.

  Kay politely said “Am I warm at all?” pointing out a young guy who might have fit the description, and you could tell she wasn’t real confident either, and Chris said, “You know what? Let’s not worry about it, let’s go up top . . . and then the day is yours. I’m wide open.”

  Up top meant the Mesa, big flat area on the northside of town up a steep hill and spreading out a couple miles west. You had to give the planners some credit, they’d stuck a building moratorium in long ago, and it didn’t look that different than 30 years earlier when Chris tried the surfing, except some of the houses were fancier.

  Yeah, sure, Ken could theoretically be up here, sleeping in some guy’s half-basement or backyard granny unit . . . but what any normal human would be thinking -- say a Chandler or a Ned analyzing things objectively -- odds are Kenny’s not here -- you’re basing the whole shooting match on some off-handed remark the kid made about someone he met at a snack b
ar.

  And then tacked on you have the heavy odds that you wouldn’t find him if he were . . . especially when a guy doesn’t want to be found.

  Chris said, “What we’ll do, we’ll drive around the perimeter. You have RCA Beach to the right, there used to be big control towers there. Kinda eerie actually, especially at night.”

  “It’s nice here,” Kay said. “Why don’t you live here? . . . Or do you actually work, which requires you elsewhere? I didn’t even ask.”

  “I could pull it off. But I’d have to rent something. Or better yet, do yard work for someone, care-take the thing, live for free.”

  Kay digested that one. “You don’t look like you use your hands much though. And you move kinda slowly, I can’t envision that, really.”

  This was always a disturbing comment, one like this, and for the first year Chris got nervous and applied it to his condition, that maybe he was in trouble -- but after the one-year milestone, you were thinking you might be slowing down period. Even being healthy. That ill-fated swim race off the pier for instance, the other guy seemed a lot more active.

  Up ahead was a hand-carved wooden sign dangling from a post outside someone’s property, and it said

  Gilda Spinnaker, Traditional Musical Instruments

  and thumbtacked below it was a temporary cardboard sign, handwritten

  Open Studio Sale Today

  Chris said why not see what it’s all about, and he felt himself essentially closing the door on his Kenny-location aspirations, and you might as well have an adventure or two, you never know.

  Kay was into it and started off telling Gilda her grandpa played mandolin, he was from North Carolina . . . and these were some of the most beautiful string instruments she’d ever seen.

  Gilda was nice, very relaxed, not laying any sales pitch on you. Chris placed her as a Jewish woman from New York. The type who may have studied classically at Juilliard and shifted gears, and easily could have ended up in a commune along the way. The place was messy -- there wasn’t a studio to speak of, everything happened right in her living room -- but it was cozy enough. She seemed to hand-craft guitars, mandolins, ukuleles and banjos, and Kay was right, the workmanship was impressive.