Coattail Karma

by Verlin Darrow

  The guy anticipated which way I’d move, and in a millisecond, I was going to have a seriously smashed shoulder.

  Then I heard an unearthly high-pitched shriek, which seemed to freeze the action. To my eyes, it was as if everything had slipped into super slow-motion. I could see the bat, and I could see my shoulder, and I could see the air between them. I could see everything with complete clarity.

  A foot flew through the air directly in front of me. It was the only thing that moved in real-time, making it appear incredibly fast. The foot drove into the side of the bat, and then everything sped up again.

  The bat clattered onto the street, and a moment later, Sam landed next to it and punched the big guy who’d been wielding it. He sank to the ground. Then she raced around me and came after the other two.

  I pivoted to watch. She was a marvel. It was like a dance, really—a violent dance.

  After Sam dispatched the men behind me with a series of kicks and strikes, she moved on to several more who were en route to where Jason was trapped. One of these guys—a slim, older man—put up a pretty good fight, but Sam prevailed when she swept his feet out from under him and then kicked him in the head.

  Next, she began attacking the men surrounding Jason. The big Maori joined in with renewed vigor, and it wasn’t long before all the attackers were either lying on the ground or fleeing.

  I just watched, and Spot watched me watch. I had no idea how much he understood. Was he like a regular dog without a real body, or was he able to think like a person? Either way, it felt good to have him by my side.

  We walked over to where Sam and Jason stood, catching their breath and smiling at one another.

  “We’d better get out of here,” Jason said. “They know where you are now. We can take my rental.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?” Sam asked, frowning. “Just because you fought on the right side for once doesn’t mean—”

  “Let’s go,” I said. “I’ll explain later. We don’t have time for this.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. It had specks of blood on it.

  “Jason is with me now,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  Sam nodded warily. We followed the big man to his silver SUV and piled in. Spot had disappeared again. Jason slalomed through the obstacle course of downed men as we heard sirens approaching.

  I saw Paul and my mother standing at the foot of the driveway as we zoomed by. I waved and tried to smile. I didn’t want them to think we were leaving against our will.

  “Where to, boss?” Jason asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered.

  I thought about it as he drove expertly out of the neighborhood. Everywhere I could think of seemed too risky. If they could find me at the RGP house, they could certainly find me at my apartment, my office, Chris’s house, or any of the motels and hotels in the area.

  “Any ideas, Sam?” I asked.

  “My place in Los Gatos won’t be safe,” she said. “But perhaps we could stay at my best friend’s house. Jason, do you think it’s likely anyone’s done that level of homework—that they know who my friends are?”

  “Probably not,” he said. “But maybe.”

  We’d reached the intersection at Mission Street—the commercial stretch of Highway One—and I directed him to turn left. I don’t know why.

  “How about some place farther over the hill?” I suggested. “A motel in San Jose or up the peninsula in Palo Alto.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sam said. “I know the perfect place. Take another left at the next light, Jason. And will someone please tell me why we’re suddenly trusting this guy?”

  I filled her in as we drove seven or eight miles inland—into the redwoods. I wanted to ask about the slowing-down-time trick back on the street—had that been her or me?—but I hesitated to bring it up in front of Jason. Since I also wanted to ask Sam where we were going, I did that instead.

  “My cousin lives off the grid,” she said.

  “Where’s that?” Jason asked.

  “It’s not a where,” I explained. “It’s a what—a house without any public utilities.”

  “Oh, out in the bush,” he said.

  “Exactly,” Sam agreed.

  We headed up the San Lorenzo River Valley toward Felton, the first of a series of small, funky towns along Highway Nine in the Santa Cruz Mountains. A lot of folks up there grew pot, owned guns, and drove pickup trucks with their choice of pit bulls or Rottweilers in the back. Their neighbors were just as likely, though, to be high-tech engineers, commuting to Silicon Valley in leased German cars.

  It was a beautiful drive. The steep road wound through a redwood forest that was only occasionally interrupted by a meadow or small home. Coastal redwoods weren’t as massive as the sequoias that thrived farther inland in the Sierras, but they still soared majestically several hundred feet in the air.

  The trees filtered the light, so it was dimmer than back in town. A few other cars on the road used their headlights, but it wasn’t really necessary. We also passed several packs of serious cyclists making the climb. It was a dangerously narrow road for them to be riding two or three abreast, but they were.

  A mile or two before we would’ve reached Felton, Sam directed Jason to slow down and turn into an overgrown dirt track on our left. It was between a second-growth redwood and a sprawling bay tree, and he would never have seen it if he hadn’t been alerted.

  After a few hundred yards, we turned again, this time nosing the SUV between two more trees where there wasn’t a road at all. Sam pointed to more gaps in the redwoods and Jason maneuvered through them until we finally had to stop.

  “We need to walk in from here,” Sam said.

  “Will my rental be safe?” Jason asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  We climbed out, and Sam led the way. Beyond the first uneven row of redwoods, a path of sorts led into the darker interior of the forest. A complex pattern of fallen redwood needles littered the ground, and a huge banana slug tried to slime its way through them.

  The trees themselves exhibited personality. Some sent out huge roots that snaked along the ground like partially submerged sea monsters. Others were twins or triplets—multiple trunks shooting up from common bases. And some of the redwoods’ bark was ridged in regular, vertical rows, while other trees displayed wild swirls, burls, or tree carbuncles.

  I’d been picturing Sam’s cousin’s place as a handcrafted cabin surrounded by vegetable gardens and docile livestock. That seemed very unlikely now. I was glad I trusted Sam or I might’ve had to start visualizing an abandoned quarry with a pile of bodies at the bottom.

  We hiked in silence for perhaps a quarter mile and then a loud, hoarse voice shouted at us from somewhere out of sight. “Who the fuck are y’all?”

  “It’s Sam. Eric’s cousin. Is that Bobby?”

  “Whose cousin?” The voice was nearby, but its owner remained tucked out of sight.

  “Spink. Spink’s cousin,” she called.

  “What about the guy who looks like a cop?” the voice called. I think he was hiding behind a tree.

  I looked at Jason, and he looked back at me.

  “It’s not me,” I told the voice. “I look like a middle-school science-fair winner.”

  “Yeah, you do,” the voice said.

  “Well, fuck if I look like one,” Jason said. Apparently, he had strong feelings about this.

  “Hey, is that an Australian accent?” the voice called.

  “Bobby!” Sam said. “I know that’s you. Why don’t you come out and talk to us?”

  “Okay,” he said and then stepped out from behind a redwood and strode forward. He was an overweight, fortyish white guy with bad skin. His black, stringy hair looked unnaturally shiny, and Bobby’s nondescript face could’ve earned him a job as an extra in a movie. His torn, stained clothes fit him poorly. His shirt was way too tight while his voluminous jeans dragged on the forest ground.

  “I guess there aren’t any Aussie cops around her
e,” he said, staring at Jason. “Unless you’re using a fake accent?”

  “I’m a Kiwi, mate,” Jason told him. “Don’t ever call me an Aussie again.”

  “Okay, okay,” Bobby said, backing away a step. “No offense, big guy. Geez, you are big, aren’t you? What do you weigh, anyway?”

  “So do you remember me, Bobby?” Sam asked.

  He turned and looked at her. “Sure, I remember you. You used to bring us blankets and shit, didn’t you?”

  He was homeless. We were heading for a homeless encampment.

  “Yes,” Sam said. “I know it gets cold up here at night.”

  “Well, it’s good to see you,” he said. “You’re about the prettiest woman I ever saw. What’s your bra size, anyway?”

  Sam shook her head.

  “Spink’s not here, though,” Bobby continued. “Did you bring us anything?”

  “No. We’re here because we need help—a place to stay where no one can find us. Do you think anyone would mind?”

  “Earl might. I dunno. Let’s go ask him.”

  Now Bobby led the way. He walked with a limp, but he wasn’t especially slow. Sam followed directly behind him, and I followed her. Jason brought up the rear. In short order, we’d ventured off the path, around a rock outcropping, and then through a small circle of adolescent redwoods. Finally, we passed under a drooping tree branch and entered a large clearing within a partial ring of much older trees.

  Bobby kept walking, but the rest of us stood shoulder to shoulder and paused to survey the scene. It was definitely a homeless encampment. Khaki tents and blue tarps were scattered around, and a fire blazed away in a square pit in the middle of the open area. Half a dozen raggedy-looking men and two big dogs sat around the fire. Everyone but the dogs seemed to be arguing.

  Maybe that’s why the dogs noticed us first. They lunged to their feet, barked fiercely, and then raced toward us. Bobby jumped to the side to give them a clear path.

  As the first dog neared me on a dead run, his teeth bared, his tail started wagging and he began squeaking like a mouse. He skidded to a halt and rolled onto his belly at my feet. The second one—an older, bushier mixed breed—arrived a moment later. She pushed her nose into my hand and began licking furiously. She had to step onto the first dog to reach me, but he didn’t seem to mind. His eyes rolled up in his head, and his squeaking changed to moaning.

  “Holy shit!” a rough voice exclaimed. One of the men jogged toward us from the campfire.

  Tall and wiry, with a long, multicolored beard that thinned out at the bottom, he was probably a well-worn fifty. He’d tied his thinning gray hair back in a ponytail. The man’s dark eyes sat above a crooked, large-pored nose, set so deeply, it was hard to see them until he drew close.

  “Hi, Earl,” Sam said.

  “Who’s this guy?” he asked her, gesturing at me with a dirty thumb.

  “Buddha 2.0,” Sam said.

  “Two point what? Why are the dogs acting like that? They don’t like anyone.”

  Earl stood directly in front of us now, studying the behavior of the two dogs. He didn’t acknowledge Jason at all. I’m not sure he noticed him.

  The younger dog—some kind of shepherd—purred like an overgrown cat. He had quite a repertoire of un-doglike noises. The furrier, older one was still licking like mad.

  I was reminded of being awakened by Spot during the night. I looked around for him, and there he was, sitting in the middle of the fire. He bit the flames.

  “2.0 is a spiritual leader,” Sam said.

  The other homeless men had made their way over by now. One of them—an older Asian guy—stared fixedly at Sam’s chest. Another one—just a kid, really—held his head low and slumped so much, I wondered if he’d fall over.

  “Who cares about leaders?” a third man said. “Leaders suck.” He wore army fatigues and a remarkably sour expression.

  Sam ignored him and stayed focused on Earl. “A bunch of thugs are after us, and we need sanctuary.”

  “Can he talk?” Earl asked, cocking his thumb at me again.

  Bobby pushed through the others and stood next to Earl, gawking at the dogs. It was the most classic gawk I’d ever seen—no other word could describe it.

  “Call me Sid,” I said, extending my hand to Earl.

  “I’ve got HIV,” he told me, his eyes locked on mine.

  “So?”

  He grinned and gripped my hand. Energy surged through my fingers into his.

  “What the fuck!” He pulled his hand away. “What the fuck was that?”

  “Love,” Jason told him. “It’s pure love. This is an amazing dude. You could be healed now.”

  “No shit? From HIV?” Earl studied him. “Hey, I know you. The rugby World Cup—2003. You were on the New Zealand All Blacks. You scored more touchdowns or whatever the fuck they call them than anybody but that Welsh guy—the one with the weird hair.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t tell me your name. I know your name. Jonah?”

  “No.”

  “Joshua?”

  “No.”

  “January?”

  “No.”

  “Geronimo?”

  “No.”

  “Vestibule?”

  “No.”

  “Eddie Stoat?”

  “No.”

  “Earl!” Sam said. “His name is Jason Patariki. Can we stay here for a while?”

  “Of course. Have you had breakfast?”

  “We have not,” I said.

  “It’s doughnut day,” Earl said. “We’ve got doughnuts. Just don’t eat the bear claws. I love bear claws.”

  So we all trooped to seats around the fire. The dogs were hesitant to move at first but then happily followed me. When I sat, both of them tried to climb onto my lap; they each had to settle for cuddling up against a hip. They were very smelly, but I preferred their odor to that of the man sitting next to me.

  The men passed around a black plastic garbage bag filled with stale doughnuts. I took two.

  “We always keep the fire going,” a young, extremely skinny guy sitting near me said. His skin was pasty white, as though he’d never been in the sun.

  “Why’s that?” Sam asked.

  “It’s symbolic,” another man said. He could’ve been a barista at one of the self-consciously hip coffeehouses back in Santa Cruz. His clothes were almost clean.

  “Symbolic of what?” Jason asked, a doughnut in each huge hand.

  “Well, it’s more of a tradition,” another man answered. It was the Asian starer. He’d stopped staring at Sam; now he stared into the fire.

  “It’s a symbol!” the first man insisted. “It’s a symbol of—”

  “Fires!” Bobby shouted. “The fire is a symbol of fires.” He began laughing.

  “It’s a tradition, God dammit!” the Asian man shouted.

  “A symbol!” the first one shouted back.

  “I vote for Bobby,” the young, shy man said. It was the first time he’d spoken. When we looked at him, he covered his face with his hands and began rocking side to side.

  “Shut up,” Earl said. “Everybody shut up. This is stupid.”

  It was becoming clear to me that some of our hosts had issues.

  “We’re a colorful group, all right,” the one camper we hadn’t heard from said in an improbably high voice.

  I looked closer. A woman with a narrow, grimy face hid in a voluminous gray overcoat, her unfocused blue eyes and blond rat’s nest hair the only evidence that the coat was inhabited.

  She spoke up again. “We’d all be good character actors if we knew how to act. We could be in one of those movies where left-handed people play the piano or they hide Jesus from the Romans.” She looked at me, her eyes focusing for a moment. “Are you Jesus? You smell like Jesus.”

  “He’s the next best thing,” Jason told her.

  She stared at him for a long time, trying to focus again. I think she was overmedicated. “You’re really big,”
she said.

  “Yes, I am,” he agreed.

  The doughnut sack had made the rounds and was back again. I thought about taking a bear claw but decided not to risk it. I settled on a frosted cruller. It was crusty, but delicious.

  “So where’s Spink?” Sam asked. “I was hoping to see him.”

  “He’s in jail again,” Earl told her. “But he gets out tomorrow.”

  “What was it this time?” she asked.

  “The usual,” he told her. “So what brings you up here? Did I ask you that already? I don’t have such a good memory.” One of his eyes twitched, and he rubbed it.

  “It’s a long story,” Sam said. “I’m not sure we have time for it.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Bobby said. “All we got up here is time. And anyway, whose fault is it if there isn’t enough? You could’ve come yesterday. You’d have had plenty of time if you came yesterday.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” Sam said. “As a way to repay you for letting us stay, I’ll go ahead and tell our story. Then you’ll see why we came today and not yesterday.”

  “Cool.”

  So she did—a very abridged version of events that was still completely unbelievable. It took her about twenty minutes.

  “Okay,” Earl said when she’d finished.

  “Makes sense to me,” Bobby said.

  I looked around. Almost everyone was nodding his head.

  “Great story,” the very skinny guy said.

  “Three stars,” someone else added. “It could’ve had more sex, though.”

  There hadn’t been any at all in Sam’s version.

  “I agree,” I said, glancing at Sam. “Lots more.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sam was able to charm the “Fire Is a Symbol!” guy into lending her his cell phone. It was a duplicate of the supposedly cutting-edge smartphone that I’d purchased at great expense in Auckland.

  “I’m not entirely the original owner,” he told us. We did not investigate this further.

  I wouldn’t have thought there’d be any signal in the middle of the forest, but there was—just barely.

  “The park’s wired,” the man told us.

  “Park?” Sam asked.