“Well, that’s that.” He turned to walk back to Stanley, who was shaking his head by the lifeguard stand.
“Oh, please stay. I get so lonely out here sometimes. My name is Vicky.”
Dan plopped onto the sand next to her chair. “I’m Dan.”
“I know. You already said.”
He blushed. “Oh. Yeah.”
They made small talk for ten minutes until Vicky announced she was thirsty.
“I’ll go get us some soda pop.”
“Get one for your pal over there too. He looks lonely.”
“Okay.” He strutted back to Stanley and motioned at his bored friend.
“She’s a Jezebel, Dan. I just know she’s trouble.”
“No way. She invited you over. She’s the nicest girl I ever met. Come on.”
The drinks were barely tasted when Vicky announced another request. “We should make these into ice cream sodas.” She pulled a dollar from her purse. “Go get three ice cream cones.”
When the boys returned, she showed them how to transfer the ice cream into the cups without spilling liquid or frozen treat. They laughed, enjoyed the breeze, and watched the surfers.
“You ever surf, Vicki?”
She stared at a line of five surfers catching a seven-foot wave. “No. But I’m going to learn someday when…” She sighed.
As soon as the sodas were finished the boys began to yawn.
“Guess we walked too much at Disneyland yesterday,” Stanley said. “I’m sleepy.”
“Why don’t you both take a nap?” Vicki patted the shade behind her umbrella. “I’ll wake you up later on.”
The boys stretched out and let the sounds of waves and shouts and laughter of beachgoers lull them to sleep.
***
“Hey driver, I need to look up an old friend.” Jason stood next to the one who had driven the busload of gaping, pointing tourists past the homes of the Hollywood elite. “His name’s Lance Ivers. He’s one of those agents who work with movie stars. You ever hear of him?”
What do I look like, Dumbo? A phone book? The driver tried to smile but instead gritted his teeth. “There’s a book listing most of the agents.”
“You got a copy?”
Do I look like an actor, bozo? “No, sir. I suggest you try the phone book. If you can’t find him in the yellow pages try the white ones.” He pointed at a phone booth where he had referred many customers.
***
“Wake up, you guys.” Jason shook Dan and then Stanley. “We’re having supper with an old army pal of mine.”
“Huh? Is that you, Vicky?” Dan half opened and rubbed sand from his eyes.
“Vicky? Who’s that?”
“She’s a Jezebel. She put a spell on us and put us asleep and then took off with my watch and gold ring that Grandma gave me.” Stanley shoved his hands under Thelma’s nose.
She shook her head. “What about your wallet?”
Stanley paled as he patted his butt in search of a familiar bulge. “It’s gone too, Mama. We’ve been robbed!”
Dan grunted as Jason pulled him to his feet. He groaned after checking his pockets. “My stuff is gone, too. I stuck it in my shirt when I went in for a swim.”
“What did you lose?”
“My wallet and watch. We got to go find her.”
Jason shook his head. “She’s probably halfway to Mexico or wherever she holes up after robbing folks.”
Dan scanned the beach. But only a few of the huge throng from earlier remained. “Guess you were right after all, Stanley. Vicki was a Jezebel.”
***
Lance Ivers tried to cheer them up over a meal of burgers, fries, and chocolate milk shakes. “Happens all the time, especially in summertime. There are probably at least a quarter million tourists wandering around Southern California right now. Easy pickings for the grifters.”
“Grifters?”
“You know, con artists. The girl that hit you probably works with an older man or woman. I bet she gave you knockout drops that she slipped into your drinks.”
“But we were holding our own drinks.” Dan protested.
“All of the time?”
“She sent us on off to get ice cream cones, remember?” Stanley blew bubbles into his shake through his straw.
Dan hit the table with his fist. “That’s right. She was alone with our drinks for a while.” He tossed his half-eaten hamburger into the white paper bag. For him the world had taken on a gray hue, even the golden arches that spanned the drive-in. “Mr. Dalrumple said you’re a private detective like those guys on Peter Gunn or 77 Sunset Strip. Can’t you help us find her?”
“Sorry, kid. L.A. is too big. Cons like her move around a lot. Tomorrow she’ll be working another beach or Disneyland or some other place tourists go to. Besides, I don’t come cheap. I have to charge $35 a day plus expenses. Can’t afford charity work because business has been slow.”
Dan did not finish his meal but kept muttering about “dumb L.A. crooks.” Lance waited for a lull in the grumbling.
“Look, Dan. L.A. is like any big city. It has crime. But I can’t let you go home on a sour note. How about I take you and Stanley surfing tomorrow?”
“Surfing?” Jason blinked. “Wow, what do you think boys? You’ll be hot stuff back home when the kids find out.”
“But I can’t swim, Dad.”
“I’ll borrow a life jacket for you. Then when you wipe out your head will stay above water.” Lance elbowed him.
“Uh okay. How do I wipe out?”
Lance chuckled. “You’ll learn. It comes with the territory. How about you, Dan?”
“Okay, I guess. What beach you taking us to?”
“Huntington. It has better waves than where you were today.”
Good. Maybe that’s where Tricky Vicki will be at. I’d like to punch her in the face.
***
Jason spent the hour long drive to Huntington Beach grilling Lance about life in California while Thelma tried to convince the boys that “there are more good girls than bad ones” as they sat in the back seat of Lance’s 1952 Ford Country Squire.
“I thought you’d be a hotshot movie agent with lots of beautiful movie stars by now,” Jason said.
Lance shrugged. “I beat my head against the wall doing that for five long years. Listen; there must be thousands of kids who take the bus out here thinking they’re going to make it in movies. Too many of them end up making skin flicks.”
“Porno?”
“Afraid so. L.A. is passing up Europe when it comes to porn. So I switched over to being a private eye after being an agent didn’t pan out.”
“What about Vegas? Were you ever able to win using the Professor’s Method?”
He laughed. “Every dime I won I would eventually lose. I’d drink too much, get tired, and count the cards all wrong. It got so bad I joined Gamblers Anonymous. Now my addiction is surfing.” He patted the wood paneling on the outside of the driver’s door. “How do you like my woodie?”
“Woodie?”
“Yeah. Surfers like either these or panel trucks to haul our surf boards around in.” He turned up the radio and sang along. “Oh, yeah. My 409…my 409.”
The song detailed a youngster saving his pennies and dimes to buy a car with a 409-cubic-inch engine. It made Jason think of illegal street races back home. Two songs later the Beach Boys were urging listeners to go on a surfing safari.
“Just why is surfing so big out here?”
“It’s a lifestyle I guess. We dress alike in our baggies and sandals and shades, listen to the same music, and brag about our best rides on the biggest waves. You remember how beatniks talked about being hep?”
“Yeah.” Jason lied.
“Well now surfers say hip instead. We have our own lingo: hang ten, shoot the pipeline, wipeout.”
“You really think the boys can learn to surf?”
“Sure. Why not?”
At the beach, Dan begged off of taking a lesson by s
aying he needed to beachcomb instead. He then walked six miles up and down the sand looking for Vickie. Occasionally he spotted a girl with the same color of hair and build or one wearing a similar bathing suit. But each time he was disappointed as he drew closer.
Stanley felt a little safer after donning a life jacket. On his first ride he lay flat on the board and gripped it until his fingernails were covered with the wax Lance had applied to it that morning. Stanley was on his knees for the second run, with Lance standing behind him. When Stanley stood and kept his balance on the fifth ride, Lance slipped off of the board into the water and body surfed next to it. Stanley did not fall off until the water was only four feet deep. He bobbed to the surface.
“How’d I do? How’d I do?” Stanley sprayed salt water.
Lance swam over to him and grabbed his hand and held it aloft. “You’re a natural, dude. A born natural. I didn’t stay up like that until my twentieth ride.” He removed a Saint Christopher’s medal from his neck and placed it around Stanley’s. “Don’t ever take that off. Saint Christopher is the patron saint for travelers so us surfers adopted him for good luck.”
Dozens of rides and rolls of film shot by Thelma later, Stanley said he was hungry so Jason treated all five at Lance’s favorite seafood restaurant, where the clams were crispy and perch, sea bass, and abalone tender. Refreshed, Lance insisted that they attend a surf music concert.
“Dick Dale is incredible. Wait till you hear him.”
The venue was packed with thousands of surfers, want to be surfers, and a few tourists. When the King of the Surf Sound hit his first chord of the night, Jason thought the dancers had ants in their pants. Some gyrated; others kicked out the latest dance steps. But most stomped their feet in four/four time with the drummer and bass player until the floor reverberated more than the amplifiers. Not much of a dancer, Jason ambled up to the stage to see how five musicians could create such a din. He blinked when he saw Dale playing left-handed and gulped when he saw that the thickest guitar strings were along the bottom of the neck – Dale was playing his guitar upside down.
With the music echoing the same sounds of the waves when he had surfed, Stanley slid onto the dance floor and replayed every pose and movement he had displayed on the surfboard hours earlier. Dancers cleared a spot for him and cheered his performance. The bravest copied his wild moves.
“What the heck are you doing?” Dan yelled into his ear.
“Surfing on land. Here’s a wipeout.” Stanley fell sideways and slid past a couple who leaped in the air as he slid under them. They hit the floor like a couple bowling pins, got up, and pretended to wipe out on the floor. Soon dozens of the dancers were wiping out.
“What on earth is happening?” Thelma was used to slow three/fourth time country tunes that required minimal movement on the dance floor.
“I don’t know,” Jason said. “They look like they’re sliding into home plate on a close play.”
After seven songs, Jason convinced Lance to take them back to their motel. “Sorry to be a party pooper,” he said.
“That’s okay. You lasted a lot longer than most do. Whenever my relatives visit they’re beat after just a day at the beach.”
***
The sports editor at the Madisin News welcomed the rolls of film from Thelma. In exchange for developing them, he obtained permission to run photos of Stanley surfing. With schools still closed for vacation and without his normal supply of stories and photos from his student stringers who covered football, basketball, track, wrestling, and baseball nine months a year, he chose the three photos that made Stanley look like a pro. The best one ran on the front page.
When school began the day after Labor Day, students who had never noticed Stanley congratulated and questioned him about his “surfing safari.” That upset Jimbo McManey. Every school has at least one bully. But at Madisin High Jimbo had gathered a gang of three others to enforce his sadistic reign of terror. Beefy and slow-witted, Jimbo would be nineteen when he graduated in June.
“Hey, Surfer Joe!” Jimbo slapped Stanley’s back so hard that his knees buckled and books fell.
“Hi…hi, Jim.”
“So, you get it on with those surfer girls?” His three sycophants guffawed and hooted as their hero shoved Stanley’s collar bones so hard that he bounced off of a row of metal lockers.
“Please stop it.”
“Or what?”
Sixty feet down the hallway, Dan weaved around students and yelled at the tormentor. “Cool it, Jimbo. Leave him alone.”
Jimbo spun around to see what fool dared to approach. “Ooo, I’m scared. It’s big bad Dan Rhinehardt.”
Dan picked up one of Stanley’s books. “Let’s go, Stanley.”
“How come you have to babysit him, Dan? Is it time to change his diaper?” Jimbo elbowed one of his pals in the ribs. “Let’s beat it out of here. These guys bore me.”
Dan led Stanley onto the back steps of their school.
“Why is Jimbo so mean?”
“I don’t know, Stanley. Some people in this life think their poop doesn’t stink, I guess.”
Stanley scratched his head. “Oh. I guess that means he’s Mr. Perfect Poo-poo.”
“Mr. Perfect Poo-poo? Oh no, I can’t stand it.” Dan laughed until his tears outnumbered his friend’s.
***
Folks at Tom’s Diner were acting strangely, Jason thought. They were hypnotized, with eyes focused on the 21-inch black and white television Tom had brought from home. The grim newscaster’s updates were interspersed with footage of American naval vessels steaming around Cuba, showdown time as Castro had invited the USSR to install missiles capable of delivering nuclear warheads. Ninety miles from the U.S., Cuba’s new arsenal frightened hundreds of millions.
“They should have taken care of Castro by helping those guys out at the Bay of Pigs.” Dale Frump slammed his coffee cup down so hard that its saucer cracked. “If Kennedy had done that we wouldn’t be here sweating bullets now.”
“Shh, I can’t hear.” Frank Watson waved a hand at Dale. “Turn up the volume, Tom.”
Tom obeyed. The set’s sound drowned out every conversation. Jason sighed and carried his check to the waitress at the cash register. Somehow she punched the amount of the bill in, gave Jason the change, and said ‘thank you’ while facing the television.
At least she didn’t pause for a tip like she usually does. As Jason walked to his truck he met Rev. Lacharetti, who was strolling to the diner.
“Morning, Jason.”
“Morning. Maybe you can cheer up that bunch in there. It’s all doom and gloom. Nothing but.”
“I’ll try.”
Jason had hoped to start on replacing the roof at Louise Pinkroot’s house that morning but she had decided that she wanted to “wait a spell. Just in case they bomb us with those missiles. Don’t make much sense to fix my roof now if they do. That happens and I’ll probably need a whole new house.”
So he drove home and entered his basement. In it he had built for Thelma a storage room for her canned fruits and vegetables. From the outside it appeared nondescript – half-inch plywood walls, a hollow core door, dimensions of eight feet wide and twelve feet long. Two of its walls were part of the concrete blocks that made up the perimeter of the basement. Inside of it, shelves ran along the length of one wall that were stocked with dozens of jars of food.
Only a trained eye might notice that the inner length was shorter than the exterior. Jason found the hidden latch that hid the false wall at the end of the room, opened it, and peered into the two-foot deep cavity. He inventoried its contents: ten twenty-gallon buckets of water with air tight lids, a battery operated radio, two flashlights, a kerosene lamp, matches, eight dozen batteries, fifty boxes of ammunition, a rifle, and pistol. He wrote a note that the cans of beans, tuna, and tins of cookies needed to be replenished. He rotated those items to the kitchen twice a year to prevent spoilage.
He slid the false wall back into place and sat on on
e of the three lawn chairs. He had told Thelma that “I built it extra big so I can store the sleeping bags and lawn chairs in there too.” Having passed that point in marriage where she no longer questioned his stranger actions, she had shrugged, even when he built walls of poured concrete after erecting the outer plywood shell. The reinforced concrete was hidden by the plywood on the outside and paneling inside. Positioned along one wall was a two-inch thick three-foot by seven-foot slab of metal that could be slid in back of the hollow core door and barred shut if…
If the big one went off as the Russians sent their missiles and bombers screaming to deliver their payloads on America. Jason thought back to the mushroom cloud he had viewed from Monkey Island.
The Professor had detailed the victims of atomic warfare he had seen in Japan and then explained that to survive a nuclear blast, the formula was TDM: Time, Distance, and Material. The radioactive fallout would decay to safe levels in weeks or months, depending on the total of bombs detonated. Distance was a crucial factor. The nearest Air Force Base to Madisin was 350 miles away and a likely target. Most important was the materials sheltering any survivors. The wood exteriors, plaster interior, and shingles of a typical home would block only a fraction of the radioactivity. A shelter underground was better; one in a basement behind concrete was best, he had told Jason. “Then the radioactivity has to go through the walls and floor first before it gets inside your shelter and you. Plus, it’s not as visible to those who did not prepare and will want to join you.”
The Professor had talked of having Jason build such a basement shelter for his family but before Jason could begin the project, both were shipped to the war in Korea. Afterwards, Jason instead built his. He told no one of the storage room’s true purpose. Not even Thelma knew of the false wall that hid the secret cache of supplies. Jason had fabricated the backup steel door after watching how neighbors would behave during a nuclear attack on a Twilight Zone episode.
They should add people to that TDM equation. Yeah, TDMP. You never know what people might do. Jason left the basement and went to the backyard and stared at the overflowing pile of the debris from six months of jobs. He had sorted through a quarter of the bits of lumber, pipe, roofing material, and chunks of concrete when an employee from the Madisin Code Enforcement parked in his driveway.
Day of the Bomb Page 19
