The Summer of Last Resort

by J. A. Browning

  Three days later Jake found himself on a dark night, flying in to Seattle Tacoma airport. Sandy had warned him that the FBI investigators had already talked to most of Shane’s friends, teachers, and school mates. But they didn’t have the diaries.

  The next morning Jake stopped by the college where Shane and Maria had had the class together, but that was pretty useless; people tended not to know each other that well for summer classes. Shane’s apartment had already been gone over by the FBI; nothing more there that wasn’t already either squirreled away in some FBI office or on one of the dozens of reports that Jake had already waded through. That afternoon, as he drove out through the gathering darkness, he struggled to know what he would say, but at the same time he had to admit to a little tingle of thrill thinking about the woman who had seduced this young man. At least that was something that they didn’t have. He knew she was bad, but he admitted that he liked it.

  Maria Rodriguez had lived in a rambler on a cul-de-sac of a nondescript suburban street. An alley ran along the back of the property, and Jake could see the little turn-out spot on one side where Shane had probably parked his truck as he described in the diary. Jake thought for a moment about going over there to poke around, but just then Maria’s mom, Joan, pulled into the driveway, stepped out, and went to open the door as Jake walked briskly towards her.

  “Missus Rodriguez? Missus Joan Rodriguez?” Jake puffed from running, catching her at the front door.

  “Miss Rodriguez. Who are you?”

  “Jake. Jake Sullivan. I’m a detective from New Mexico.”

  “New Mexico? What are you doing here? Is this about Maria?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Is she all right? Do you know where she is?”

  “No, ma’am. I mean, Miss.”

  “Well, then I don’t know if I can help you. I already told the FBI and the state patrol and everyone else everything there is to know,” she scowled and turned her back to him.

  “We have one of her friends.”

  “Shane. Yes, I know.”

  “Do you know him?” Jake asked, producing a small photo from inside his jacket pocket.

  “Oh, not very well. He was just a boy that Maria hung out with,” she lied.

  “I see. Did the FBI tell you why he’s a person of interest?”

  “Sure. But they’ve already been here. You’re too late. There isn’t anything more… nothing more to say only you need to get my baby back, do you hear?” She turned and almost poked Jake in the chest with her finger, but hesitated. Just then a man’s voice called her from within the house, asking what’s going on. “There’s nothing more for you here, and don’t even think about coming in… Good day, detective,” she said, swinging the door into his face, but he wedged a toe in, and grabbed her wrist, and pulled her close.

  “I think you knew that Shane boy pretty well,” Jake whispered. “In fact, I think you knew him about as good as a woman can.” He could feel her face turn red, just for a moment, but she didn’t turn and look at him yet. Jake knew that this was his moment. “Joan, I don’t care about that. I want to help you, I want to help Maria, and I think this Shane kid is innocent.” That shocked her; she hadn’t considered that Shane might be a suspect for murder. “Do you know a friend of Maria’s named Kim?” Joan shook her head and whispered, “I don’t know her full name, but yes, I think she was one of the other kids they hung out with.” Then she continued in a loud stage voice, “Look, you’ll just have to go, see?” and then she pointed to the brown Chevy in the driveway and whispered, “ come back when that’s gone.”

  Jake dutifully returned that evening after the brown car was gone, but when he knocked and rang the doorbell there was no answer. He was about to leave when he noticed that something flat and bulky was lying under the doormat. He gingerly pulled it out and saw that it was a high school yearbook,the kind of book that kids get their picture in and then write stupid stuff about their friends. Jake looked around and, seeing no one, quickly returned to his car with the book under his coat.

  That night, at the hotel, he gave Sandy a call and told her about the book.

  “So, now you’ve got pictures and names of the friends?”

  “That’s right,” he replied cockily. “Including a Kim. Hey, you’re gonna have to check out this Keith kid for yourself,” Jake said, looking at the handsome young man whose picture had been circled and had little notes written around it. There were pictures of him in football. There were pictures of him in baseball. And in basketball. Each one with a little smiley or heart or an underline.

  “Keith Youngblood.”

  “Really. Why?”

  “Don’t you remember, he’s the hot guy?”

  “Oh, I see. You mean you don’t want him?” Sandy joked.

  “I’ll just have to do with you...”

  “Oh, Jake... well, I appreciate that.” Sandy said, and Jake realized he’d said too much.

  “Any luck on the diary?”

  “No, I’ll stay up here another day and see what happens.”

  “OK, see you soon, sport,” she said and hung up.

  Jake spent a sleepless night lying in the fleabag hotel room that his cheap bosses had doled out for. He began to convince himself that this whole thing was a waste of time, and that these kids were just having some sort of summer fling. Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” came to mind in particular.

  The next morning Jake faxed the yearbook pages back to Sandy and then headed out to the community college to talk to that chemistry professor. The weather had improved a bit, at least he could occasionally see a shadow, but still a damp chill reached into his bones, a chill he couldn’t shake. It had been a while since he’d been on a college campus, and the sheer number of young people was a little disconcerting to a man whose job is to blend in and be unnoticed.

  Once Jake had a look at the classroom that was used for summer chemistry he realized that he was wasting his time; it must have held maybe 250 seats, and his follow-up interview with the prof yielded nothing. Frustrated, he made his way over to the central office to review records for any writing classes, but of course Jake didn’t know that the admissions and central office staff wouldn’t have known anything about that; he’d have to talk to the individual departments, so after getting the runaround all day Jake dejectedly decided to leave the campus. But he was hungry, so before returning to his car, he headed over to Luigi’s Pizza. It seemed popular and maybe he could grab a slice and a beer while he thought about his next move – which he did.

  Inside was crowded with young students clustered here and there in small knots, plus a few blue collar workers, their shifts done for the day. Jake envied them the simple satisfaction of ending each day’s work at the same time, and turned back to his beer when a new group of about six young men and women came in and asked if he would mind so much moving to a smaller table so that they could use his. He was about to yell at them, but thought better of it when he looked at their smiling, eager faces. They thanked him and sat together, animatedly discussing something. Jake tried to tune them out but it was impossible. They were making a student film, apparently. That sounded interesting. Jake found himself glancing over their way, and noticed that they all had those composition books like Maria had for their journals. I suppose everyone has those, he thought to himself – they probably had a sale. But what made him almost spill his beer was when he overheard them say that they were all keeping journals. Jake felt his heart race, and then told himself to calm down and listen, but he just couldn’t make out what they were saying, so he wandered over.

  “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear you’re in film studies,” Jake said, using his earlier encounter with them as his buy in.

  “Yes - we’re all in a script writing workshop,” answered one of the young men.

  “That’s fascinating. Really. I’ve always been interested in writing for film or television. You know, when you get to be more like my age you start to have some experiences, some things that
are worth writing about.” They nodded their heads politely, and Jake continued. “Can you tell me which professor runs the class? I’d be interested.”

  “Oh, no,” interjected one of the girls. “It’s not through the college. It’s a special writing workshop set up by the Tacoma film institute.”

  “The what?”

  “The film institute. It’s a program for young artists.”

  “Really. So, what kinda stuff do you write?”

  “Well,” answered one of the girls, “We practice writing dialogue by writing it in a journal.” She looked at him and realized that Jake didn’t get it. “See here,” she said, opening her journal and showing a page to Jake. He quickly scanned the handwritten pages and saw that she had been writing about a fight with her boyfriend, but with dialogue.

  “Thanks...isn’t that kinda personal?”

  “Yeah, but you get over it. How are you gonna write drama if you don’t HAVE drama?”

  Jake couldn’t refute that argument.

  “So, are there other classes?”

  “Yeah, but this is the core writing class. They only have it in the summer.”

  Jake pulled out the pictures of Shane, Maria, Kim, and Keith, and placed them on the table. “Do any of these guys look familiar?” he asked the group.

  “I thought you were interested in writing,” one of the young men said.

  “I am… but that’s not my job now.”

  “What is your job now?”

  “I’m a cop.”

  “Then … maybe you should go.”

  “These kids – these guys could be in danger,” Jake half-lied. Danger, yeah, like being accused of murder’s being in danger.

  “Well, good luck,” the young man said and started to rise up.

  Jake grabbed his arm. “Look, this is serious. I’m not fooling around here.”

  The young man stood and pulled Jake’s arm away, and walked out the door, with the rest of his gang following timidly behind. Jake tossed some bills on the table and started after them, but realized that they weren’t going to talk in a group. He turned and started back to the parking lot, only to hear footsteps in the gravel behind him. It was the girl that had shared her journal with him.

  “Look, mister, you never told us what exactly you want.”

  “What I want?” Jake replied. “Look, we’ve got three people we’re trying to track down. Two of them are missing. We know were Shane Johnson is. We’re looking for three other friends of his – Maria Rodriguez, Kim and Keith. “

  “What did they do?”

  “It’s not what they did, it’s what might happen to them if we don’t find them. There was a mob killing, and if they were witnesses, then there’s a price on their heads.” Jake was of course putting the spin on this big time; those kids could also have been accomplices, or drug mules, or who knows what.

  “Shit.”

  “Right. We want to find them before anyone else does.”

  “So… what does that have to do with us?”

  “Your journals….”

  “Oh… if you had their journals, then you’d know where they are? Maybe, but it doesn’t always work that way. People write pretty intimate details but often disguise the most mundane things like places and names. Or we use fake names.”

  “I still need them.” Jake didn’t mention that they already had Maria and Shane’s.

  The girl motioned Jake for the pictures. She held them carefully, like a hand in a poker game, and re-shuffled them before handing them back. “This kid,” she said, handing him Keith’s card, “He wasn’t in the class.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Him? Oh, I’m pretty sure I’d remember.”

  “This kid Shane, he was in the class. He was pretty enthusiastic. This girl,” she said, handing him Maria’s card, “I’m not too sure about. I think she was there. Now this other girl,” she said, holding on to Kim’s card, “She was there.”

  “You’re sure,” Jake asked insistently, and she nodded.

  “Who teaches this class?”

  “Uh… a guy named Bert – Bert Lieberson, I think.”

  “Burt Lieberson?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s right. Look, It’s over on, um, 19th and Jefferson, I think.”

  “Did you turn in your journals?”

  “No, but he did look at them.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I think he liked the girls better. He’s a bit of a perv.”

  “Yeah, I guess that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Look, I’ve told you what I know. Now go off and do your cop stuff!” And with that, she turned and quickly walked away.

  That evening Jake found himself driving down into the city, to club Maximo, the nightclub that Sandy wanted him to steer clear of. He would just check it out, he thought to himself; nothing special. But somehow he had stopped in at JC Penny’s and bought a polyester shirt and some cheap patent leather shoes.

  The club didn’t open until ten, but as he drove by he could see in the light rain that they were still expecting quite a line-up. He circled the building casually by taking a shortcut through the back alley, then crossing the opposite street and going around the other side of the block. When he had finished, he had noted all the exits and security cameras were, and then he waited across the street until the club filled up.

  It wasn’t until just before midnight that the bouncers were busy enough that Jake felt he could get in. Still, he wasn’t quite their normal clientele, and stood nervously in line. A young lady and her friends behind him joked about his age, saying that maybe the new management was turning the club into an old-folks home. Jake turned around and quipped, “Yeah, and next I’ll teach you kids how to do the Lindy.”

  Inside it was noisy. Jake didn’t like disco, he was much more of a rock fan, even a metalhead, and he felt like a giant walking hypocrite. But back at the bar he settled onto a thickly padded red barstool and looked around. Things were a little quieter back here, there as even a pool table. He watched the female bartender carefully as she busily filled drink orders from the scantily-clad waitress and then eventually took his. Jake was already a little light headed, but even so he ordered a whiskey on the rocks.

  So, how’s the new management?” Jake asked casually.

  “What business of yours is that?” replied the bartender crossly.

  “Sorry. Just making conversation.” The bartender went off to filling more orders, and Jake absent-mindedly wandered over to the pool table and started shooting a ball around, when a stunning young woman in a fishnet body suit walked over and grabbed a pool cue and started sliding it back and forth between her fingers. “Do you want to shoot some with me,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. Jake dropped some coins into the slot, pulled out the balls, and racked them up.

  “You break, honey,” the fishnet clad beauty said.

  “Is this what you always wear to the clubs?” Jake asked.

  “You don’t get out much, hon.” She replied. “Didn’t you see me up in that cage on the left?” Jake shook his head and shot, scattering the balls over across the felt.

  “So... how do you like it working here,” Jake asked, seemingly making small talk while she lined up the cue ball. “Seven ball in the left pocket,” she said, and deftly dropped it with a thunk.

  “Oh, it’s all right. A girl’s gotta make a living, you know.” The game continued, with Jake making embarrassingly few good shots.

  “Have the new owners talked about making changes?” Jake asked. The fishnet girl didn’t break concentration at all. “Not new owners, I don’t think. Tell the truth, I’ve got no idea who owns this joint.”

  “Who runs it?”

  “It gets run,” she said, slowly chalking the tip of her cue.

  Jake turned to her and, gesturing at the cube, said, “I could use some of that.” She reached over and grabbed his stick, and then gently placed the chalk cube over the end and twisted it rhythmically back and forth. “I lov
e it when a girl twists the tip of my stick,” Jake joked, and she smiled and leaned her head towards his. “Look, I don’t know what you’re after, but the guys that replaced Johnny, well, they’re ten times worse.” Jake nodded, and took his shot, unfortunately dropping the cue ball. But when she went to place it, Jake took Shane’s picture out and laid it on the table.

  “Do you know this kid?” he asked, but she shook her head, and took the shot. Jake took the picture and replaced it with Maria’s. “Her?” he asked. No. Then he showed Keith’s picture, and, for a second, a smile flitted across her face, and then he showed her Kim’s picture, and she nodded in agreement. Jake carefully pulled the pictures back into his pocket, noticing the bartender scowling at them, and pulled he fishnet girl aside. “This girl - her name is Kim. Do you know her?”

  She didn’t say anything, but Jake saw her eyes widen just for a moment.

  “What about this guy, Keith?”

  “He was Johnny’s friend.”

  “Did you know him?”

  She leaned closer to him and whispered, “Oh, I knew him all right.”

  “Was there anything special about him? Any distinguishing characteristics?”

  She laughed and looked back at him. “You could say that.”

  “Do you know where they might be now?”

  She shook her head, and grabbed her stick, but just as she drew her arm back to shoot, a big man in a dark jacket came in and grabbed it. “You need to be back on the floor,” he said, roughly grabbing her arm and shoving her away.

  “And you, sir, I think you need to come with me,” the big man said, and Jake instinctively took a step back, but hound himself bumping into another large man. They grabbed Jake and hustled him back through a door in the back of the bar, and back to the back of the club, where there was a large trash compactor machine. “Give me your wallet,” the first man demanded, and Jake shook his head. The second man switched on the compactor and then grabbed Jake’s arms behind him while the first man let go with a brutal punch to the belly that left Jake doubled over on the metal waffle plate floor next to the machine. His groans were muffled by the whine of the machine squeezing trash. “Get up!” the first man demanded. The first man frisked Jake, who of course didn’t bring a weapon, but did pull out his wallet. It had a driver’s license, a Diner’s Club card, a Chevron gas card, and a teacher’s union card – all courtesy of Jake Iverson, lately deceased, of Ponca City, Oklahoma. “You took my daughter, you bastards!” Jake grunted, and lunged at him while the second man tried to restrain Jake.