by Jeff Shelby
“It’s alright.”
“I just checked my voice mail this morning,” he said. “I came as soon as I listened to Liz’s message.”
“It’s alright.”
“I’m really sorry, Noah.”
It wasn’t like him to offer sincere, direct apologies. I knew my appearance probably rattled him.
I pulled on my shorts and T-shirt, trying not to grimace. “Dude. It’s okay. I haven’t been much fun anyway.”
“Still. Shoulda been here.”
“Whatever.” I stepped into my sandals. “You can make it up to me by getting me out of here.”
He nodded and opened the door.
We walked silently out of the hospital and I was so glad to breathe fresh air that I didn’t make my usual remark about his god-awful-looking car. The topless Dodge Ram Charger, painted like a zebra, save for the skull on the hood, was a welcome sight.
We made it to my place in fifteen minutes. My Jeep was out front like Liz had promised. Carter stood awkwardly next to the car, not sure how to help me. I waved him off and struggled out, figuring the movement would keep me from getting stiff.
By the time I made it to my sofa, I was winded.
Carter went to the fridge, opened two Coronas, and came around to the couch. He placed one on the table in front of me.
“Thanks,” I said, reaching for it, deciding I’d substitute the alcohol for the pain pills I’d been prescribed.
He nodded and took a long pull from his bottle. He set the bottle down and took a deep breath.
“So,” he said. “Anybody we know?”
I took a drink from the bottle, the beer tasting much better than the water and juice I’d been given in the hospital. I shook my head. “Don’t think so.”
“But you’ll know them when you see them?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Good. You say when and we’ll put them down. I’ll call in a few favors.” He drank from the beer again. “You can be in on it or not. I don’t care. But these fuckers are going down.”
I nodded and didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure if I wanted in on it. I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to see their faces again. And that bothered me more than anything else.
I changed the subject. “Why were you in LA?”
He smiled and pointed the bottle in my direction. “Workin’ on a real job.”
“No. Seriously.”
“Workin’, dude.”
“A real job?”
He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Yeah, I guess. I’m gonna be on TV.”
I leaned back in the sofa. “Excuse me?”
He drained the beer and set the empty bottle on the table. “Acting.”
“So, while I was in the hospital, hell froze over?”
“Funny. I’m gonna be a reenactment actor.”
“A what?”
His eyebrows danced over his eyes, the excitement apparent. “Okay, you know like America’s Most Wanted and shows like that?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Well they do reenactments of the crimes they’re trying to solve. I’m gonna play the bad guy in a couple of reenactments. Wear a wife-beater tank top and everything.”
I stared at him for a moment, then started laughing. “You’ve found your calling.”
He nodded, proud. “It’s not for sure yet, but who knows? This could lead to movie roles or some shit like that.”
I held the beer up. “Who knows?”
“So, anyway, I may be spending a little time up there in the next couple weeks.” He paused and looked at me. “But not until you’re alright.”
“I’m alright now,” I said.
“Sure,” he said, but I could tell he didn’t believe me.
I shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. I didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for me or seeing the embarrassment and fear I didn’t seem to be able to put to bed. And I didn’t want anyone but Mo and Lonnie on the receiving end of my anger.
I pushed myself off the sofa and walked over to the corner of the room where my surfboards stood. I moved the six-foot Ron Jon off to the side and put my hands on the nine-foot Merrick that hadn’t seen the ocean in a while.
“You thinking of hitting the water?” Carter asked.
“Yeah. Probably won’t even ride. Just sit out there.”
“Cool. I’ll go with you.”
I turned around. “No. I’m gonna go out by myself.”
Carter looked at me, a little unsure and skeptical. “You sure? You still look a little wobbly.”
I nodded and pulled the board away from the wall. “Yeah. I just need some air, some space, you know? I’m just gonna get out there and watch.”
“You want me to wait here? Make sure you can make it back okay?”
I shook my head. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Not what I meant, Noah.”
“I know.”
I’d taken a beating like this once before, courtesy of a drug lord I’d pissed off. The difference then, though, was that I knew it was coming. This one had blindsided me. I just wanted to get away from everyone who knew what had happened. I wanted to hide so I wouldn’t have to explain anything to anyone. The bruises would heal, the pain would go away, but I wasn’t sure how to fix the worry and rage that had taken up residence in my head.
I opened the screen door to the patio and laid the board outside in the bright afternoon sunlight. I grabbed the long-sleeved red rash guard off the back of the lounge chair, pulled off my T-shirt, and struggled to get the guard on over my head. I knew that I looked awkward getting it on, my arms still a little uncoordinated, and that the bruises on my body gave the impression that someone had splashed me with purple paint, but Carter didn’t say anything.
“I just wanna be alone for a while, okay?” I said finally.
Carter stood up off the sofa. “Okay.”
I shut the screen door. I picked up the board and stepped over the short wall to the boardwalk.
“Noah.”
I turned around. Carter was standing at the screen door.
“It would’ve happened to whoever walked into that house,” he said. “Me, you, Mike Tyson. Wouldn’t have mattered. You weren’t expecting it. No one would’ve been ready for that.”
I shifted the board under my arm. “I know.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Do you? Really?”
I turned and walked down the sand toward the shimmering water, unable to answer that question.
Ten
I sat out on my board, just beyond the break, for about an hour. I moved out to the side of the lineup, ignoring the looks I was getting from the others out on the water when they took in my appearance, just watching and resting. The water and air felt good on my body and it gave me a chance to clear my head. By the time I paddled in, I felt better.
I spent the rest of the day napping and watching television. Every couple of hours, I’d walk outside and do some stretches on the patio, trying to make sure nothing stayed locked up. The stretching hurt, but I’d knew it would pay off in the next couple of days.
After a night of sleep and a slow morning walk on the beach to loosen my muscles, I called Mike Berkley and arranged to meet him downtown after his workday ended. I figured I needed to do a little backtracking. Peter Pluto had said that Mike had given him my name, so he seemed a logical place to start.
I ate lunch, paid a few bills, and took another brisk stroll on the sand before making the twenty-minute drive down I-5 to the west end of the downtown area to meet Mike. I parked at the corner of Ash and Columbia and took a quick glance at myself in the rearview mirror. The bruising on my face seemed to be less pronounced, but there was no denying that I looked like a raccoon. At least I was downtown, where sights like my face might blend in.
Mike had suggested meeting at the Columbia Street Brewery and, as the name indicated, it was on Columbia Street. Situated between several of the newer skyscrapers to creep up the downtown San Diego landscape, it was an after-hours hot
spot.
The interior consisted of oak, brass, and glass. The giant mirrors on the walls made the interior look twice as large as it actually was. The restaurant area was pushed off to the left, tables nearly stacked on top of one another to accommodate the growing crowd. The bar ran lengthwise down the right side, bartenders in T-shirts and jeans scurrying back and forth behind it.
I hesitated in the entryway, scanning the crowd. As my eyes panned across the room, I realized I wasn’t just looking for Mike. My brain was keeping an eye out for Lonnie and Mo, as well. It was silly to think they’d be at this kind of place, but the beating had put me on full alert.
I found Mike at the far end of the bar. He was loosening the blue and red tie from the collar on his white oxford. He glanced at me, looked away for a second, then whipped back in my direction.
His eyes widened as I approached.
“What the fuck happened to you?” he asked.
“Hazard of the job,” I said, extending my hand and avoiding an explanation.
He shook it and nodded at the stool next to him. “Sit down before I have to pick you up.”
“I’m okay.”
He looked at me. His light brown hair was cut close to his head. His eye color matched the hair and his complexion was vibrant and tan, not something you usually see on an attorney who spends a lot of time in his office. He was a couple of years older than me and I hadn’t seen him in a few months, but every time I saw him, he seemed to get younger.
“You seriously alright?” he asked.
“Fine.”
Mike stared at me for a second, then shrugged. He waved at the bartender, pointed at his beer and then the empty space in front of me.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said after the beer arrived.
“Hey. Thanks for coming here,” he said. “I’m meeting a date here in a little bit.”
“Don’t let me get in the way.”
He grinned, exposing bright white teeth. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
Mike lived a serious bachelor’s life and liked it that way. His good looks, charm, and wit made it easy for him.
I took a drink from the beer and set the glass on the oak bar. “Guy came to see me. Said you sent him.”
He finished pulling the tie from his shirt. He folded it up and shoved it in his pocket. “Pete?”
“Pluto, yeah.”
Mike raised eyebrows. “He actually came to see you, huh?”
“Yep.”
He took a drink from his beer. “I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not.” He shrugged. “Yeah, I gave him your name.”
I looked toward the mass of working stiffs gathering after a day of depositions, day trading, and number crunching. “You know him well?”
He shrugged. “Enough. I handled his mother’s estate when she died. Seems like a decent guy.”
“You know the brother?”
Mike smirked and rolled his eyes. “Linc? Sort of. He was kind of a little prick the two times he came to my office. I tried to chalk it up to the fact that he’d just lost a family member, but I got the feeling it was a regular thing with him.”
As I watched the overpaid yuppies laugh and talk, I thought of Peter Pluto’s body in the canyon. Liz hadn’t released his name yet, so I didn’t feel ready to mention it to Mike.
“What’s Peter do for a living?” I asked.
Mike thought about that for a second. “Was selling real estate when I first met him. Assume he’s doing it still.” He grabbed his glass off the bar. “What’s going on, Noah?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Any idea where the kid would go?”
“No clue,” he said. “Pete just said he couldn’t find his brother and he was worried. I gave him your name.” He paused, stared at me a little harder for a moment. “This have anything to do with the way you look?”
I laughed. “You’re not fond of my new appearance?”
“No. It looks like you really pissed off the wrong guy.”
I nodded and looked back at the crowd. “Something like that.”
“Hey, Noah, if this guy’s into something you don’t want any part of, don’t feel obligated because of me.”
I looked back at him. “My curiosity’s been piqued.”
Mike smiled and drained the rest of his beer. “Fair enough. Well, from what I know, Pete’s a good guy. But I really only know him from the estate and trust work I did for him. He was pretty straightforward and completely hassle-free.” He set the empty glass back down on the bar. “Like I said, Linc to me was a little bit of a punk. But most of my dealings were with Pete.”
“Any way I could find out about that trust left to Linc?” I asked.
He frowned. “Come on. You know that’s confidential.”
I finished my beer and nodded. “Yeah, but look at my face.”
His frown morphed into a reluctant smile. “I don’t think there’s much there, but I’ll see what I can get you.”
“Peter said Linc had hooked up with the wrong crowd at some point. Any clue as to what he meant?”
He thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah. Pete tell you anything about the father?”
“He got pretty upset when I asked, so I didn’t push it.”
Mike nodded, as if that sounded right. “Not surprised. He was into the white supremacy thing. And Linc got into it, too. I’d assume that would be the wrong crowd Pete was talking about.”
I thought of Lonnie and Mo. “How involved was Linc?”
“Not really sure,” Mike said. “Pete didn’t go into it much. I think he was embarrassed by it. I just knew he was worried about him.”
“Peter wasn’t into it?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. Like I said, I don’t know Peter all that well. But I highly doubt he’s involved with white supremacists. He got visibly upset when he told me that Linc was into it.”
It seemed like Linc had been keeping company with a pretty volatile group of friends and I wondered if it had become too much for him to handle.
Mike looked over my shoulder. “And now, if you’re finished with me, my date for the evening has arrived.”
I laughed and stood. “I said I wouldn’t get in the way.”
“You are a friend.”
“I try.”
Mike stood up and waved. “Actually, I think you know her. We were all in court together one time, if memory serves me.”
“Really?” I said, and turned around.
The bar was crowded now, people stacked four deep at the railing. The tables in the restaurant were filled completely. Mike could’ve been waving at anyone in the place, trying to get the attention of any of the gorgeous women in the room.
But it was clear that he was waving at the best-looking woman in the bar.
He was waving at Liz.
She froze for a moment when she spotted me, her expression indicating she was as surprised to see me as I was to see her. But then it was gone and she made her way over to us.
Mike stepped around me. “Liz, you know Noah, right? His eyes were probably different last time you saw him.”
She wore a blue blouse and tailored skirt, her hair piled on top of her head. The makeup around her eyes was a little darker than normal, the blue in her eyes a little brighter. She smiled nervously. “Yeah. Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” I looked at Mike. “I gotta run. I’ll call you, alright?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I pushed past them, through the crowd and out the front door, feeling as if I’d taken a beating all over again.
Eleven
I turned up Johnny Lang in the CD player, gripped the steering wheel of the Jeep, and stepped on the accelerator, driving away from the Columbia Street Brewery, Mike, and Liz as fast as I could.
As I forced my way through the traffic headed north on I-5, I unclenched my jaw and tried to relax. Liz and I weren’t together. We weren’t anything. I didn’t have any right to get upset with what she was doing in her personal life, yet my gut felt like it was f
illed with jagged stones.
I took the I-8 westbound exchange behind the old Sports Arena and past Sea World, exiting at West Mission Bay Drive, and headed into Mission Beach as I thought about my anger. I wasn’t ready to admit that Liz was over me. I’d imagined our relationship as one of those like you see on television, where the couple is apart until no one can take it any longer and then they end up back together. You just have that feeling that two people are supposed to be together.
I had that feeling about Liz and me, but she apparently didn’t watch the same shows.
I parked the Jeep in the alley outside my house and walked the five blocks up Mission to the SandDune. My legs were stiff and heavy and the walk helped bring them back to life. The bar was half filled; a quiet buzz of conversation mixed with the overhead television monitors.
I slid onto the first stool and waved at Marsha behind the bar. She was wearing a tight black T-shirt cut just above her navel and her blond hair hung straight to her shoulders.
She strolled over and winced. “Who danced on your face?”
“Guy with big feet,” I said, leaning against the bar, breathing harder than I would’ve liked. “Shot of Cuervo and Red Trolley on the back.”
She nodded and pulled the bottle of tequila from below the counter. She turned up a shot glass in front of me and filled it with the liquor.
“Gonna be here awhile?” she asked, pushing the small glass toward me.
“That’s my intent,” I said.
She produced a bottle of the beer, flipped the top off, and set it next to the tequila. “Okay. I’ll be back in a bit.”
I turned my attention to one of the monitors above the bar and watched the Padres play another meaningless game late in the year, trying to shut the image of Liz and Mike out of my thoughts.
It was two beers and an hour later before Marsha wandered back to me.
“You feel as bad as you look?” she asked, throwing her towel into a bin behind the counter.
“Not until people start telling me how bad I look.”
She laughed and nodded. “Right. Sorry.”
“No problem. I’m getting used to it.”
She leaned on the bar. “Guy was in here earlier, looking for you.”
