Halfway House

by Weston Ochse

  “And Bobby?”

  He turned. “Yeah?”

  “Be careful. There’s some serious shit going down out there.”

  “No problem, Lucy.” He gave a half salute. “See ya later.” Then he turned and walked away.

  Lucy took his dad’s seat on the porch and drank the remainder of his forty in silence.

  Chapter 17

  Bobby spent the day looking for Kanga. He’d checked with Mark Nunez, who had lost track of the old man. The last he’d seen of Kanga was when he’d brought him to the dojo. Mark had intended to teach his afternoon class and then get some soup into the old man, but by the time he’d finished tossing around ten-year-olds, Kanga was nowhere to be found.

  Bobby checked the beach shack twice, as well as the bars along the coast. Kanga should have been at one of those places. His board and gear were still at the shack, which told Bobby he hadn’t run off. The last thing Bobby did before going to hook up with Lucy was to get one of the surfers to watch the joint. Once Bobby showed him the stash of half empty Clunys he’d buried in the sand down the beach for a rainy broke day, it was an easy deal. Even so, he reminded the kid, a no-talent, big-hearted surfer from San Pedro High School named Mikey, that this was Bobby’s and Kanga’s home, and he should treat it as such.

  If Bobby could have, he would’ve called the cops and filed a missing person report, but Kanga was off the grid as far as Bobby could tell. There was no telling the last time the old surfer had paid taxes, much less voted or taken part in a census. For all he knew, Kanga was wanted on four continents.

  Thinking on it a moment, Bobby imagined that Kanga more than likely had some outstanding misdemeanors. What self-respecting surfer didn’t get copped with possession of beer or a little marijuana on the beach? Sleeping on the sand wasn’t exactly legal. Most of the time cops overlooked such a capital crime, but when some landowner got it up their craw and complained that the surfers were getting over, the cops were forced to come down, and usually they came down hard. The beach shack in Jap’s Cove was nowhere near someone’s house, which made it the perfect place to break a few laws, proving the universal out of sight, out of mind theorem, which applied to everyone, especially cops.

  With nothing more to go on, Bobby made Mikey promise to keep the place safe and tell Kanga where he was gonna go in case the old man returned. Then Bobby took off. With twenty bucks from the stash to his name, he climbed up the steep path to Paseo Del Mar, edged around the fence, and trudged down 25th Avenue and along the crest of the Pacific Ocean until he hit Point Fermin. A steady wind blew off the ocean, pushing aside the smog like a divine hand, distilling the air until it was cool and clear enough to see the ridges along the spine of Catalina Island.

  He was huffing and puffing and covered with sweat when he spied Blockbuster leaning against an ice cream cart and licking a double-scooped cone, while trying to make time with the teenage girl dispensing the icy ambrosia. When the lean gangbanger saw Bobby, he passed a scrap of paper to the girl, grabbed a single-scooped cone and sauntered toward the curb. When Bobby trudged up, he handed him the ice cream.

  “You look like hell.”

  “Got a girlfriend?” Bobby eagerly accepted the cone and inhaled the top half of the scoop.

  Blockbuster glanced back at the girl, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. “She’s just fine, ain’t she? Gave her my number and told her to call if she was feeling lonely or something.”

  “Or something,” Bobby mumbled. “Isn’t she a little young?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “Listen, Bobby, Lucy told me to take care of you. He’s dealing with some issues right now, and I’m told you’re going to a party tonight.”

  Bobby forgot about the girl. “A party?”

  “Yeah. Remember that pringao pajiero we poached in Van Nuys? We tracked down the guy he gave up. Sure enough, he has a house in Rancho Palos Verdes. Looks like he has parties every night and we managed to get you an invitation.”

  “You coming too?”

  “What? You need me to be Kevin Costner to your Whitney Houston? You need a bodyguard?”

  “Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever believed I’d be compared to Whitney Houston.”

  “And we’re talking before she became that crack whore with Bobby Brown. Back when she had chops. Back before she died in the bathtub.”

  Bobby shook his head. “You watch too many fucking movies.”

  “That’s what they all tell me.” Blockbuster tossed his cone in the trash and headed for the driver’s side of his green lowrider. “You ready to go?”

  Bobby nodded, but was drawn up short by the look of sheer menace on Blockbuster’s face. He noticed the gangbanger’s gaze on what was left of his ice cream.

  “No food in the car, man.”

  Bobby tossed what was left in the trash can and climbed into the passenger seat. The interior smelled of coconut oil. The dash was a darker green, hard plastic, and gleamed with a thousand rubbings. The insets were sparkling chrome. The carpet was so showroom perfect, Bobby lifted his feet for a moment. He’d never owned a car, but if he did, he wanted one like this.

  Blockbuster threw it into gear and rolled away from the curb and down toward South Pacific. When they turned, Bobby kept his eye out for Kanga, searching the tables at the Lighthouse Deli and the freaks in front of the halfway house. There were about a dozen, but they passed too quickly for him to see who they were.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “6th Street. There’s a shop there that Lucy said to take you to. He said we can’t afford to dress you like all them fancy-ass Hollywood types, but we can still dress you so you’ll fit in.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Famous last words, Bobby thought. Kind of like when you see a good ol’ boy walking out in the backyard with a box of fireworks and a bottle of Jack saying “watch this.” You just know things are gonna end terribly wrong.

  They rolled past 8th Street. A Road Closed sign was affixed to a board supported by yellow sawhorses. Halfway down the block there was a lot of activity at Lucy’s. At least a dozen cars were parked at all angles in the street and a hundred men milled about. Probably taking care of the issues Blockbuster mentioned. Before the street was lost from view, Bobby saw a gangbanger jerk a nine from the waistband of his jeans and brandish it in the air. These issues were going to be nothing but trouble.

  Two streets later, they turned right into 6th Street. Unlike the rest of San Pedro, this area had been prettied up for the tourists debarking the cruise liners at the international terminal. A trolley carrying as many Swedes as Mexicans who’d come to Los Angeles on vacation ran back and forth from the ships. The street was paved in cobblestones and had a different feel than a lot of the Los Angeles areas. The studios filmed several television shows along the storefronts just because of this a lawyer show set in Boston and a show set in San Francisco that centered on the daily drama of three witches.

  Besides a few upscale tattoo parlors, a coffee shop called Sacred Grounds, and a magic shop that gave live demonstrations of every trick they sold through a window cut in the side of the wall, there was the usual collection of overpriced clothing stores with garments sporting names that sounded European and expensive. Wide-branched trees like those found in an Eastern U. S. town lined the streets, creating a canopy of dappled sunlight.

  On the first Thursday of each month, the street closed down for First Thursday, an event where stores put tables on the street. Vendors came from far and wide, and funnel cakes were sold like it was a one-time-only carnival. 6th Street was one of the critical pieces of the schizophrenic character of San Pedro, and was a protected gem of the community.

  Blockbuster parked in front of a store called Yesterday’s which sold secondhand clothes. He got out, leaned against his car and gestured for Bobby to go inside, but Bobby hesitated.

  “I only got twenty
bucks to my name. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “You look like you slept in them clothes. No way are they going to let you into the party like that, even if you were Brad Pitt. Don’t worry. Lucy said he’d take care of the cost. Just get in there and find something.”

  Bobby entered the store. The inside was a hobo’s museum of old and new clothes. From fake fur leg warmers to parachute pants to leopard skin jumpsuits, anyone who wanted could join the cult of Andy Warhol and embrace the seventies.

  The farther into the store he went, the farther back in time the clothes took him. Past the neon silk of the sixties, past the bowling shirts of the fifties, through ranks of gray flannel suits with matching fedoras, all the way back to the John Wayne Neverland of leather vests, Stetsons, and hard-worn leather boots.

  Bobby stumbled around for a few moments, then a thin brunette with her hair in tight curls approached, her white lace flapper dress falling sheer from demure breasts. She asked if he needed help.

  “Is it that obvious? I really don’t know where to begin.”

  She smiled patiently as she looked him up and down. Wrinkles slid from hiding at the corners of her eyes, and he realized she was much older than she seemed. Even as beautiful and slender as she was, she could be his mother. “Everyone says that when they first come in.”

  “Oh, yeah? What does everyone do?”

  “I either let them wander about until they get bored and leave, or for the truly lost causes, I see if I can help them out.”

  “I take it I’m a truly lost cause.”

  “That would be an understatement.” When she smiled, her eyes smiled with her. “Tell Annie what you need the clothes for and she’ll find just what you need.”

  “You’re Annie?”

  She nodded and held out her hand. He took it gently, introduced himself, and then further surprised himself by telling her his story. When he finished the tale, ending with the possibility of getting back his birthright by attending a party this evening in Rancho Palos Verdes, she stared back in a contemplative silence.

  She grabbed his hand and led him down first one aisle, then another. They arrived at a rack of sport coats. She felt his shoulders, then let her hands slide down to his waist. Before long, she was flipping through the jackets until she came to a dark blue sport coat with gold sequins falling from the shoulders in a nonsensical paisley pattern.

  “Try this on.”

  He gulped. Was she kidding?

  But she pushed it into his hands, then led him down several more aisles. She grabbed two T-shirts. One was an original Daisy Duke Dukes of Hazard shirt. The other was black with the face of Bruce Lee materializing out of the shadows. She added a pair of jeans and a pair of black Doc Martens with a silver buckle across the top of each one. Before he could complain or argue, she hustled him into a dressing room and pulled shut a red velvet curtain.

  He took off his old clothes and tried on the new ones. They fit perfectly. He appraised himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and liked what he saw. His black hair was dirty and wind ruffled, so he smoothed it a bit by running his hands through it. His sideburns could use a trim, but they were as wide and bold as his father’s. The sequined jacket over the Bruce Lee shirt, the jeans, and even the hard black leather half boots created a look that was at once his own and an homage to rock stars from his father to those who strutted the stage today.

  He sensed his old clothes being removed from the floor beneath him. He spun around and ripped open the curtain. Annie stood there, arms filled with his old clothes, her eyes first wide with alarm, then sliding to slits as she appraised him. She smiled and nodded. “That’s the look I was trying to get.”

  “What look is that?”

  “The look of a long lost son of Elvis. Look in the mirror. I can see it and so will others at the party.”

  He liked this woman. She had an ageless beauty about her that was both simple and elegant. She knew how to get to the point of things. Like the comparison to his father. Such a compliment was priceless to him, since he’d spent so long trying to find the truth of his heritage.

  She didn’t charge for the new wardrobe, but insisted on keeping his other clothes as a trade. He didn’t think it was much of a trade, but he wasn’t about to argue. When he left the store, she held the door open for him and kissed him lightly on the cheek, wishing him luck.

  Blockbuster grinned.

  Bobby got in the car and asked, “What’s with the smile?”

  “Lucy was right. He said that Annie would take one look at you and treat you like her own.”

  “What’s that mean? Who is she?”

  “Annie’s been around for twenty years or so. Longer than me. I don’t pretend to know what’s going on, but she occasionally picks a young man to take under her wing. Looks like you’re the most recent.”

  They drove up Sixth and stopped at a Chinese Restaurant that sold five dollar plates of noodles and General Tso’s chicken. He thought about what Annie had done for him. She didn’t seem to want anything in return. What did he care?

  “Did she do this with you?”

  “Me?” The gangbanger made a face. “Hell, no. She likes white boys.”

  Chapter 18

  After dinner, they drove around for a few hours, keeping to the north side of San Pedro. Occasionally, Blockbuster would speak into his phone and spew rapid-fire Spanish when he saw a cop or a suspicious car, but otherwise he remained silent. Just after nine, Bobby got out by a hotel across from the cruise terminal and grabbed a cab. He gave the Sudanese cabbie a piece of paper on which Blockbuster had written down the address, then sat back and tried to relax.

  The Angels had arranged a contact to get him into the party. With the help of Annie, he was dressed for it. But was he going to be able to pull it off?

  A wave of depression washed over him. Who was he kidding? They were going to find him out the minute he opened his mouth. He wasn’t able to speak like they did on television. He was from the street. Worse, he was from the South. His accent made people think he was automatically stupid, as if smarter people talked differently. He remembered something Laurie had said, and as he remembered her, he smiled.

  “That’s just crazy, Bobby.”

  “I know. But it’s true. Because I speak Southern they think I'm stupid.”

  “Like they have any room to talk. Ever hear a guy from New York speak? Or Boston? They sound as intelligent as Rocky Balboa.”

  “I think he was from Philadelphia.”

  “There, too! Maybe someone should remind them that five of the last seven presidents were from the South. We’re talking both Democrats and Republicans. If everyone thought they were stupid, then why were they elected?”

  She’d always been willing to defend him.

  But now she was dead.

  The memory hit him in the face.

  He lowered his eyes and blinked the images away. As he emptied his mind, he looked out the window of the cab at the lights of the cargo ships leaving the harbor. One of these days he might board one of those ships and sail around the earth for a while. Maybe then he’d find the place where mourning was an easy thing to do.

  By the time he arrived, Bobby was lost in the memory of a Chicago train yard and being chased by Vice Lord bolos, running for his life along the tracks with only his backpack and baseball bat to his name. He’d never once looked back. Life with the Vice Lords wasn’t any life at all for him. It had been pure survival. Nothing more.

  “We here.”

  “What?”

  The cabbie banged on the window, pointing toward an immense Tudor-style mansion that was lit up like a marquee. Palms and exotic plants were showered in their own oscillating individual lights. People came and went along a path illumined by recessed block lights. Security guards stood at the edge of the street and parked cars, while more stood at the door letting people inside.

  “This is de place we go.”

  Bobby jerked a twenty from his pocket and passed it thro
ugh the metal slot. “Keep it,” he said.

  He got out of the cab and pulled his gold sequined jacket tight. The onshore wind shot through him, making his teeth chatter. He trudged up the lane until he ran into three men parking cars. They wore black jackets with the words Silver Screen Security across their breasts. He didn’t know who they were, but they looked like offensive linemen. One was Hawaiian, another was black, and the third was Hispanic.

  “What you want?”

  “Either of you know Gabe?”

  “I’m Gabe,” the Hawaiian said, his voice softer than expected.

  Bobby tried to keep his voice low and still be heard over the wind. “Lucy sent me.”

  “Lucy? Who’s this girl, Gabriel?” the black guard asked. “You been holding out on us?”

  “It’s not like that, T,” Gabe murmured. “Anyway you got a car. Get back to work.”

  Both Gabe and Bobby watched T open first the passenger door on a nearby Maserati, then the driver’s side door. The driver, a well-groomed Arab wearing white pants and a white tank top covered by a white jacket, handed the keys to T, took two steps, then turned. As he did, he saw all four hundred pounds of T get into his car and the 200,000 dollar automobile sink three inches on its suspension. As T sped down the street, sparks shot out from the undercarriage.

  The Hispanic snickered and turned away. The Arab shook his head and snapped free a cell phone from his pants pocket. Bobby figured he was probably ordering a new Maserati.

  A giant hand wrapped around Bobby’s arm.

  “Listen now,” Gabe whispered. “I’m doing this as a favor, so don’t make me sorry I done it. Okay, bra? If you don’t behave like a good boy, I’ll come in there like your worst Kamehameha nightmare. You understand, bra?”

  He nodded and the Hawaiian set him free. Bobby straightened and smoothed out the wrinkles left from the grip on his jacket. As he strode up the walk, he passed an ultra-thin, gorgeous blonde on the arm of a regular Joe. She was more than a little drunk, and the Joe was more than a little pissed.