Fin was feeling woozy. The streetlights started swimming. His face felt hot and his pulse was up to a hundred, at least. And it was only partly because of the booze. The last time he felt like this he married the babe in the passenger seat!
A moment of panic, then he blurted, “I’m forty-five!”
“Yeah?”
“Does that shock you?”
“Why would it?”
“Take my word for it, Bobbie. Normal people get real goofy when they turn forty-five, but actors? We jump off buildings!”
“I thought you were about forty,” she said. “Forty … forty-five, what’s the difference?”
What’s the difference? What’s the use! He felt lonely for a moment, very lonely. He wished someone Nell Salter’s age was sitting next to him. What’s the difference?
“No difference,” he said. “It’s all the same.”
She put her hand on his arm then, the first time they’d touched. She said, “I don’t care if you wore wingtip baby shoes. I just wish you could forget about age. Is this what a mid-life crisis is all about?”
“No, this’s what a mid-life calamity is all about.”
“Well, just stop it,” she said; then she unhooked her seat belt. “Speaking a forty-five,” she said, “I gotta get this sidearm off.”
“We’ll lock it in the car.”
“Are you packing?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think we’re gonna need a gun in the joint I’m taking you to. When their customers get in a brawl it’s about as dangerous as two clowns smacking each other with pig bladders. I did Shakespeare once, when that’s what we did. Hit each other with fake pig bladders.”
Fin took the scenic route, driving past the Santa Fe Depot, a handsome train station in the Mission Revival style. It had been done well, so that the wood framing and stucco created the illusion of eighteenth-century adobe walls. Then Fin drove along the bay front, slowing for the nighttime tourist traffic. There was one cruise ship in port, and the three masts of the Star of India were outlined in white lights. Probably the oldest ship still sailing, the Star was christened on the Isle of Man in 1863, and had made numerous trips to and from Australia with other iron sailing ships of the era.
By the Star of India was a ferryboat that had done rescue work in the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Across from the harbor side was the County Administration Center, Fin’s favorite building, a 1930’s beaux-arts landmark aglow with shafts of vertical light.
Fin was thinking how he was doomed to love everything old about his city and to scorn the new, when Bobbie interrupted his reverie to say, “It’s a shame the Portuguese and Italians couldn’ta hung on to their fishing industry the way it used to be.”
“I was just thinking how I like all that old stuff!” Fin said. “You read my thoughts.”
“See, we got a lot in common,” Bobbie said. “More than you think.”
Fin crossed the San Diego River Floodway, driving past Sea World, and then across the Mission Bay Channel, that allows small pleasure craft to penetrate the 4,800-acre aqua park from the ocean side.
Bobbie said, “I think this is one a the most excellent things about this town. A huge water park right in the middle a the city!”
“Not like where you come from, huh?”
“Wisconsin? Not even!”
“Do you sit around in winter and ice-fish, or what?”
“Yeah, and we stay in saunas mostly, and talk with funny Scandinavian accents and whack each other with birch switches. In our spare time we shiver. Believe me, I’ve heard all the snowbird put-downs.”
“So maybe you should stay in California when you leave the navy,” Fin said, turning onto Mission Boulevard toward south Mission Beach.
The old roller coaster was lit up and operational since the. recent restoration. In Fin’s youth, there was a ballroom next to it where his sisters danced to the big bands. He was feeling nostalgic, and would’ve talked about those golden days in Mission Beach if the woman next to him was Nell Salter, or someone not younger than his handcuffs.
When they got to Fin’s favorite gin mill they were lucky to grab a parking space only half a block away.
“You aren’t expecting a trendy bistro, I hope,” he said, after they’d locked up Bobbie’s sidearm.
“I’ve spent a little time in Mission Beach,” she said, “but mostly on the north side.”
“Nothing up there but kids and derelicts,” Fin said. “Down here any derelicts you meet won’t be kids, just old geezers that sit around telling knock-knock jokes.”
As soon as Bobbie stepped inside she said to Fin, “Wow! This is a serious saloon. Bet you could get a terminal case of Smirnoff flu with this crowd.”
“Or Napa Sonoma virus,” Fin said, “if we stick to wine like we should.”
“Not in here,” she said with a grin. “This is the kinda place where you grog it up!”
It was a typical beach saloon: low ceiling, redwood paneling, and a large four-sided bar in the center where one could look across at alter egos and always find somebody in worse shape than oneself. There were many women drinkers, all of whom were older than Fin. Two of the women had helmet-head blunt-cuts, sprayed so they wouldn’t ruffle in gale-force winds or if they got conked by a beer bottle.
Even though California beach communities were into outdoor sports and health, saloons like this one were havens for those few smokers left. These people had worse fears than death: aging, for instance.
Fin was in a semi-rollicking mood. He said to Bobbie, “Until I ran into you today, I was feeling that my life had the value of a disposable diaper, a used one. Now I think I’m ready for some fun. So where’s my grog?”
Bobbie boldly wiggled through the drinkers standing two deep at the bar, and yelled, “Make a hole, shipmates!” The mustachioed bartender wore a tank top and shorts, and she said to him, “Two double brandies!”
An old coot sitting at the bar turned to her and said, “You old enough to drink brandy?”
Bobbie winked at the bartender, and said, “Make that one brandy and a double Roy Rogers on the rocks!”
This close to the election, there were lots of political debates going on in the saloon. Bobbie stood next to a guy who had navy written all over him. He was arguing with another old geezer whose belly was big enough to make the cover of Vanity Fair.
The old sailor said, “A liberal Democrat’s always against capital punishment, but for killing fetuses.”
“So?” the other geezer said, after a horrendous belch.
“It’s not consistent. Don’t you see that?”
“What’s your point?”
“Mother Teresa’s consistent. She doesn’t wanna execute guilty murderers or innocent fetuses. I’m consistent. I wanna kill Death Row murderers and innocent fetuses as long as they come from the inner city and would probably grow up to be guilty murderers.”
“What’s your point?” the other codger repeated, belching again.
“I got more in common with Mother Teresa than any candidate does!”
Bobbie paid for the drinks, tipped the harried bartender a buck from her change, and wriggled back through the crowd to Fin, who was trying to play some not-so-oldies on the jukebox, even though it was impossible to hear the music over the din.
Bobbie looked at the dollar bills she’d been given in change and said, “Gnarly!”
Each was nearly faded to white. One was Scotch-taped.
Fin said, “Beach-town bucks. Those dollar bills’ve been in the pockets of shorts during surfing, swimming, Laundromat cycles, and maybe even bathtubs when their former owners were fully clothed.”
Bobbie kept the limp rags of currency separate from her other money, intending to leave them as tips.
They began watching a woman with dye-damaged hair, who’d probably graduated from high school during Eisenhower’s presidency, weaving in little circles with a geezer in flipflops, jeans, and a T-shirt that said “Canardly” on it.
Fin explained
that all “Over-The-Line” players knew that it stood for “Canardly get it up.” This as opposed to players in the other divisions like “Cannever,” or “Canalways,” or “Caneasy.”
Bobbie learned that this saloon was an official hangout of the OMBACs, the Old Mission Beach Athletic Club-or if one preferred, the Old Men’s Beach Athletic Club-a group that had made the zany sport of OTL world-famous since it began in 1954. Now, thousands attended the annual OTL Tournament on Fiesta Island, and money was raised for worthy causes while men and women tried to bat and catch softballs after having consumed enough Bacardi rum to make Puerto Rico not even need statehood.
The annual OTL Tournament attracted packs of aspiring models, actresses, strippers and other exhibitionists, who vied for the honor of winning the tit tournament, thus becoming “Ms. Emerson.”
Bobbie was interested to find out that the most recent Ms. Emerson was an ex-marine her own age.
When she asked one of the old duffers why they called their beauty contest winner “Ms. Emerson,” the geezer said, “Knock-knock.”
Bobbie looked warily at Fin, but said, “Okay, who’s there?”
The codger said, “Emerson.”
Bobbie said, “Emerson who?”
The old coot said, “Em-er-son tits!”
Then all the fogies had a good snuffle and cackle, and Bobbie found herself with three Bacardis and two more brandies, compliments of the geezer gang.
Bobbie was told that some of the teams participating in the OTL Open Division had names like Dicks With Stix, Titty Clitty Gang Bang, and Tongue In Groove. The Women’s Open Division had teams named No Flat Chicks, Our Team Sucks, Penis Envy-Not, and George, Stay Outta My Bush.
Bumper-sticker team names were plastered to the walls, alluding to Hollywood movies, such as, TWAT’S UP DOC? HANNIBAL ATE JODIE AND SILENCED THE CLAM, DANCES WITH WOOL, and DANCES WITH VULVAS.
There were political statements stuck to the ceiling that said: ARKANSAS WOMEN ARE SO FAST THEY NEED A GOVERNOR PUT ON THEM, and a reference to Bill Clinton’s ex-paramour, Gennifer Flowers: ROSES ARE RED, VIOLETS ARE BLUE, CLINTON INHALES FLOWERS TOO.
The motto over the smoky hamburger grill said, IF IT DOESNT GET ON YOUR FACE, IT’S NOT WORTH EATING.
On the door to the women’s rest room Bobbie read, WE SNATCH KISSES amp; VICE VERSA.
By 11:30 Bobbie was ripped, and sitting in the lap of a retired San Diego cop called “Bub” who’d also been a commander in the U.S. Naval Reserve, thus bridging the two worlds of the two drunks at his table.
Fin’s head was starting to loll, and he said, “That is it! No more rum!”
“Don’t be a wuss!” Bub said. “You sound like one of those Secret Service guys last week chasing around after the vice president with spiders in their ears, saying, “I can’t drink when I’m on duty!”
“They don’t make Feds like they used to,” Fin had to agree, scratching his chin but not feeling it. “Only reason the FBI and CIA even exist anymore is so every putz in Hollywood can make movies claiming their leading man is the target of government agents.”
Bub literally bounced Bobbie on his knee like a child, and said, “Put on some tunes, will ya? But nothing by Ozzy Osbourne. It sounds like sea gulls chasing a trawler. And nothing by that crotch-grabbing, former human person, Michael Jackson.”
“Okay, Bub!” Bobbie said, heading for the jukebox. Her cotton top was a mess from spilled rum. The former pink shell now looked like a paisley.
“I either gotta go home or make a dying declaration,” Fin said to Bub, but he knew that before leaving there’d be the long sentimental goodbyes required in such places.
When she came back, Bobbie overheard an old redhead with big hooters whisper to Bub, “Do you like to talk dirty to your wife when you’re having sex?”
Bub answered, “Only if there’s a phone handy.”
When Bobbie questioned Fin about the age of all the fun-loving fogies, coots, geezers, codgers, duffers and biddies she’d met in the saloon, he didn’t know how to tell her that the oldest fossil in the joint wasn’t fifteen years his senior.
All he could mumble in their behalf and his own was “Because of all their fun in the sun, crow’s-feet are badges of honor. Sorta like the face paint on Alice Cooper and Amazon headhunters. They’re really not as antique as they look.”
Fin was doing some shaky driving when they crossed the Coronado Bridge at 2:00 A.M. He had the radio tuned to a San Diego oldie station, and while Natalie Cole’s old man sang “Too Young,” he said to her, “My sisters made me sing that when I took guitar lessons. They thought I was adorable.”
“You still are,” she muttered drowsily, her eyes closed.
He glanced over, thinking that now she looked like a teenager. At the top of the bridge he saw the Suicide Prevention Hotline number, and thought: What is happening to me? Where am I going with my life? Do I have a life left? Where’s the Menopause Hotline number? Does it get worse than this?
When they drove through the toll gate he said to her, “Time to wake up, kid, I mean, Bobbie. Open up your peepers.”
“Huh?” she said, bolting upright.
“It’s not a Scud attack,” he said, “but we’re in Coronado. Where do you live?”
She directed him to a house just off Fourth Avenue, and after he parked in front, he retrieved her.45 automatic. Then he opened the car door for her, and this time he had to pull her up by the hand. She staggered when she took the first step so he put his arm around her waist and walked her to her upstairs apartment in the rear.
She fumbled in her purse, and didn’t object when Fin took the purse and rummaged for the keys. She didn’t object when he unlocked the door and led her inside. Nor did she object when he put her purse on the kitchen counter, along with the holstered automatic, gun belt, and keys.
She did object when he pecked her on the cheek and turned toward the door.
In fact, still wobbly, Bobbie intercepted him and threw her arms around his neck, exploring his gold crowns with her tongue.
When he pulled away he knew he was in trouble. Gallantly, he said, “No way, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid.”
Hoarsely: “No way. Not in your condition. Not in my condition.”
Bobbie ran her hands under Fin’s jacket and over his buns saying, “What condition are you in?”
“No way, Bobbie!” he said, even more raspy. “Your boyfriend went back to his wife, right? You’re just lonely.”
“Sure, but I don’t have to hit on toll-booth attendants. I can find somebody any time I want.”
“You’d be sorry tomorrow,” he said.
“I never had an older guy,” she said. “Besides, it’s already tomorrow.”
A croak: “I can’t go the distance.”
She stepped back then and said, “I can’t believe it! You’re the first guy ever turned me down!”
“I’m not turning you down,” he said. “Just asking for a rain check.”
“But why?”
That stopped him. His mouth was dry. His heart was hammering. His hands were shaking. He wanted to peel off that rum-stained pink shell right this second and fondle those Emersons for a week at least!
Instead, he said, “I can’t take advantage of a kid … of a young woman that’s drunker than a beer-hall mouse.”
“You are a gentleman!” she said in amazement. “For real! The first one I ever met in California!”
Trudging out the door, he said, “I wish I had Jimmy Carter’s home number ‘cause I sure got a lotta lust in my heart!”
She popped her head out and said, “You really are! A gentleman!”
He was boozy and woozy and full of self-pity when he said, “I’m a combat veteran of the battle of the sexes, but somehow I can’t bring myself to really use-and-abuse personnel of your gender. Because of my sisters! Those three babes have wrecked my entire life!”
When he got to the bottom of the steps she said, “Wait, Fin!”
He paus
ed: “Is it about the rain check?”
“It’s about the shoe!” Bobbie said. “I been forgetting to ask you all evening about the shoe on the dead guy’s foot. Whazzisname, Pepe Palmera? What kinda shoe was it?”
CHAPTER 21
Nell Salter had trouble going to sleep that night because of confusion, and mixed feelings concerning the neurotic cop, Fin Finnegan.
Bobbie Ann Doggett had difficulty sleeping because of her raging blood-alcohol level, and her astonishment at having met a gentleman in the state of California.
Jules Temple couldn’t sleep because he was furious at the notion that he was losing control of his own life, and at his dismal sexual performance with Lou Ross. But finally, he blamed his failure on Lou’s deteriorating body, and took a sleeping pill.
Fin Finnegan slept badly because of a plethora of emotions that involved Bobbie Ann Doggett, Nell Salter, his three ex-wives, and all three sisters. He had a momentary rum-soaked fantasy about living the remainder of his days in a monastery out near Borrego Springs, until he remembered that he’d still be a forty-five-year-old monk.
Abel Durazo was awake longer than the few minutes it usually took, because of the extreme violence he’d seen in the bikers’ bar. And also because tomorrow he was going to collect six thousand dollars from Soltero. Abel had never had so much money at one time in his entire life.
Shelby Pate couldn’t sleep at all. It was mostly because he’d snorted so much meth he was totally amped, and when he was like this he did all sorts of strange things, such as going out to his girlfriend’s one-car garage and trying to take his truck engine apart and put it back together. Sometimes when he was wired he’d work on his Harley in the front yard under a droplight, or he might initiate a frenzy of hedge clipping until it looked like a herd of starving goats had raided the yard.
When he got like this, his neighbors would scream at him and threaten to call the cops, but they were tweakers too. They knew that Shelby was vibrating from having done a teener of go-fast, and that he’d chill pretty soon. Or else he’d flat-line, and they wouldn’t mind that either.
There was another reason though, that Shelby Pate couldn’t sleep, and it had nothing to do with the twitching and jumping and oscillating caused by the cringe. It had to do with the visit by Nell Salter and Fin Finnegan. It had to do with Shelby learning for the first time that they were hauling a very dangerous pesticide called Guthion, and that such a load should’ve been manifested for disposal outside California.
Finnegan's week Page 20
