by John Decure
Yes, these are false impediments, blown up with the hot air of self-absorption and seriously out of whack with reality. But just now, another apparent phantom impediment was looming large. I had to tell Eloise I was bailing from work early, this time because of an unconfirmed crisis at home. I wondered what she would say, while simultaneously thinking: Why should I care?
I stressed over that one for half an hour, my throat a little tighter each time I replaced the receiver after dialing home and getting nothing but ring after hollow ring. So I banged out witness and exhibit lists for the Dortmunder case, my mind fixating on that punk thug Carlito and the threat he’d made at the savings and loan. Ringing home again, I had no success. I began to picture Carlito backing Carmen into the entry-hall wall with a forearm across her neck as Angie stormed inside and grabbed Rudy, the phone ringing impotently in the background. That image was enough to get me out of my chair and down to Eloise’s office. I was bailing, regardless.
Eloise was on the phone with her back turned when I got there, but she saw me and didn’t even react. Another subtle message that the waters between us ran chilly. This had been our history from the beginning, since that first day we’d taken her to lunch following her surprise hiring. I say surprise because nobody I know even saw it coming. Eloise Horton materialized like that relative you never knew you had who turns up right before the will is read. Out of nowhere.
I leaned against the doorjamb outside her office, my neck stiff from the shot I’d taken in the pier parking lot that morning with Albert. Five more minutes crawled by. Screw it, I decided, the situation at home is real and this business about whether the boss will be annoyed if I cut out a little early just doesn’t rate.
Eloise’s secretary, Monette—which she pronounces Mo-nay, like the Impressionist painter—was sorting a pile of letters at her desk ten feet from Eloise’s open door. Monette is a very dark black girl. She may look as wide of one of Claude Monet’s pastel haystacks, but she’s definitely not French. I slid in next to her cubicle and watched her thick fingers riffle through the letters as she silently bopped to some stereo sounds on a small headset. Despite my loitering presence, Monette gave no indication that she knew I was alive.
I rapped my knuckles on her armrest. She grimaced and tugged back her headset. “Tell Eloise I’ve got a problem at home and I’ll see her tomorrow,” I said.
Her eyes returned to her work. “You should tell her yourself.”
“She’s on the phone.”
Monette turned and checked it out for herself, in super slow mo. “Then put it in a memo.”
“I don’t have time. It’s an emergency.”
“She prefers memos.” Shaking her head.
“I don’t have time. Just tell her, please.”
Monette didn’t say she would, she just stared at me, vacant as a naked billboard. Remember the important things, I silently counseled myself. As I made for the exit, I thought I heard her say, “Oh, I’ll tell her,” in a low voice, but when I looked back, she was sorting letters again, her head bopping to a tune I could not hear.
The house was dark when I cruised down Porpoise Way, no signs of life at all through the living-room glass down below or the twin dormers up above. I drove around back and double-parked across the garage door in the alley, then rattled through the gate and into the small, square backyard.
“Max,” I called out.
A few seconds later, my Rottweiler rolled from the shadows, teeth flashing, like a prehistoric shark rising from the deep.
Max came to me a few years back via a former client that I represented in juvenile dependency court named Darla Madden. She was a mountainous woman, a widow raising two kids in a twobedroom apartment that, with the addition of Max, had devolved into something of a shit hole. The day I met Darla, I told her that the only way she could keep custody of her kids was to choose between them and Max. You would think it was an easy choice, but Darla was reluctant to make a move. The thought of two kids marooned in a foster home unnecessarily really ate at my insides, so in a rather softheaded moment, I offered to take Max—temporarily, that is, until Darla found a bigger place to live and got the county off her back. The kids went home to their mom, but Darla never returned to reclaim her dog. That suited me fine because I’ve come to love Max like the brother I never had.
The big guy licked my hand and sat up, begging for a little affection. I was instantly relieved by his nonchalance. Had something nasty gone down earlier, Max would still be bristling from it.
Inside, the house was intact. No note on the fridge or by the phone in the entry hall. I went back outside and opened the back gate into the alley. “Come on, buddy,” I said to Max. “Let’s see what’s shakin’ in town.” Wondering where to start. The police department? Fire station? Maybe just by cruising down Main first. I had no idea, but the thick scent of salt and wet sand swelled my lungs, and something, perhaps an instinct, like your brain ordering you to scratch before you even feel an itch, well, something like that was directing me to head for the pier, and I was off.
Max hopped in the front passenger door. I slid a heavy-duty choke chain around his neck as his stub of a tail thrummed the seat. To him, this stuff was fun, but I welcomed his backup. People think twice about advancing on you when you’ve got close to two hundred pounds of chewing machine by your side. I leaned across the seat to roll down his window for him and caught a tongue-licking that felt like a raw steak slapping me across the cheek.
“Cool it, boy.”
Night was coming, black and moonless. A few anglers were fishing off the end of the pier. The parking lot was empty and lifeguard headquarters was well lit but closed down by now. A local wino slouched against the observation tower, wrapped in a blanket and creased like a half-eaten burrito. Above him on the tower, the chalkboard that displays daily wind, tide, and surf conditions was wiped clean, as if the ocean, too, had closed for the day.
I crawled the Jeep wagon toward Main, windows down, barely accelerating. The shops and sidewalks on both sides of the street were dead quiet. In front of the Marmaduke, a guy in a leather vest sat on a chopped Harley and fooled with the strap on a helmet that was shaped like an old Nazi SS job. The biker made strong eye contact with me when he heard the car. For some reason I didn’t look away, even when his face twisted into a scowl.
“Hey, who’s your girlfriend?” he called out. An old, unfunny joke.
I tapped on the brakes. The biker swung a leg out over the gas tank. Tough-guy tats adorned his bare shoulders, but he was a runty one and I could see him straining to increase his stature by puffing his chest. Not worth it, I thought, I’m busy with other things. I took my foot off the brake and the Jeep inched forward.
“She’s as ugly as you are,” the biker added.
Sometimes the assholes of the world just wear me out. I braked again.
“She is a he, clown. Care for an up-close meeting?”
Max didn’t much like the guy’s looks either and let off a lion’s roar of a growl that wiped the attitude right off his stubbled face. I sighed, arm slung over the steering wheel, doing my best to register zero concern. This approach tends to work well with bullies.
The dude was quick to reassess his options, and Max and I watched him swing that leg right back over the tank and settle onto his bike again without another word. Nothing personal, I guessed. He was probably pissed about the new mandatory helmet law in California.
But there it was again. Just amother stupid comment from a stranger, and yet, I would have been all too ready to go.
We continued to creep north toward PCH, seeing nothing unusual. The Food Barn market glowed like a nighttime oasis through broad glass windows, a row of empty check-stands inside. Kitty-corner across the four–way stop the Captain’s Galley restaurant was having a slow night. Nothing but empty parking spaces lined the front of Pier Liquor. I began to feel foolish, like this was an absolute waste of time, when Max fixed his gaze on the Beach Motors lot and let out a hefty bark.
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Dale’s Regal was parked across the open garage, the front doors wide open. Mick Conlin was standing a few feet in front of the hood, Carmen next to him. She waved when she saw me.
I swung the Jeep wagon in and cut the engine, leaving the headlights trained on the Buick. The garage’s recesses were dark, no sign of Tord, but the office and waiting area were flooded with hard overhead light. Inside, Rudy and Albert were hunched in one corner, backs turned, Dale slumped in a plastic chair a few feet behind them. The electronic pops and gurgles of a video game followed a fat column of light out into the yard.
“Stay,” I commanded Max. He obeyed but fudged a little, craning that granite head of his out the window to catch what action he could.
Mick was in his navy work pants and shirt, no jacket against the descending evening chill. Carmen was in old jeans and an oversize gray sweatshirt of mine, looking ravishing in an offhand manner you just can’t plan. I gave her a peck on the cheek, which she didn’t return.
“I guess you two have met,” I said.
“My pleasure, too,” Mick said. Carmen smiled.
“I called the house and no one answered,” I told her. “A bunch of times.”
“Oh.”
“Got here as soon as I could.”
“Rudy decided to take a stroll,” Carmen said. “About two hours ago. Right out the front door, alone.”
“Where was Dale?”
Carmen shrugged. “Asleep, I think. On the living-room couch. Albert and I were upstairs reading stories. If Mickey hadn’t come by and rung the doorbell when he did we might never have caught up to him.”
Mick nodded. “I heard about what happened at the pier this morning. Thought I’d stop by to see if you needed any help with anything.”
“Thanks, man. How’d you find Rudy?”
“We drove up and down every street in town,” Carmen said. “He was nowhere.” She seemed to lose her breath. “It was pretty terrifying, J.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“I was pretty scared for him, but I thought if I called the police, it might cause a problem for you.” Her downcast eyes made me feel ashamed of the confusion I’d caused her these past two days.
“Rudy and Dale had a problem last night too,” I explained to Mick.
“With the city’s finest?” he said.
“You guessed it. So where was he?”
“Dale figured it out,” Carmen said. “I guess they stopped in at the liquor store last night.”
“Great.”
“Dale said it was just to buy some snacks,” Carmen said. “Anyway, Rudy noticed the video games by the door and wanted to play. Dale said he didn’t have change so they had to pass, but they could come back.”
“He must have been wandering around town awhile when he recognized Pier Liquor,” Mickey said. “We found him spinning the wheel on that Grand Prix game, just watching the track peel by on the screen. No quarter in the machine. Guy behind the counter was ready to toss him, said he and his buddy did the same thing last night.”
Carmen shook her head. “I think Dale’s broke, J.”
“Sounds like it.”
“So we brought him over here, let him play on my machines,” Mick said. “He seems happy enough.” He nodded at Carmen. “Your lady was pretty certain you’d find your way to us before too long.”
I took out my wallet and handed him a ten. “Let me pay for the games at least.”
Mickey declined the gesture. “No worries.” But his eyes told me he’d picked up on the tense vibe between Carmen and me. He checked his watch. “Tord’s gone home. Think I’ll head inside and wrap things up.”
“Thanks, Mick,” I said. “For everything.”
“Forget it,” he said over his shoulder. “Hey, sorry I missed you this morning. I was having so much fun in the water I didn’t even see what went down in the parking lot.”
“Never mind, at least you had fun,” I said. “That was the idea.” I tried a meek smile on Carmen. She deftly turned it away by looking past me to Albert and Rudy. Together we watched Mick enter his office and disappear through an open door back into the garage.
“Don’t try to sell me on the joy of surfing, J.,” Carmen said quietly. “Now is definitely not the time.”
“I’m not. What I meant was … ah, never mind.” I could feel an argument bubbling beneath the surface and figured that now was not the time to start philosophizing on the free-and-easy essence of surfing. Patching up Albert and me this morning, Carmen simply couldn’t fathom how anyone could actually come to blows over something as fleeting and trivial as a breaking wave.
“Never mind what, J? Tell me about it, I’d like to know. There’s a whole lot I don’t understand right now.” Her pinpoint gaze never left my eyes.
“Just, I don’t know, it was probably better that Mick didn’t see me when I faced off with those guys this morning. More bodies would have ended up in the hospital.” I briefly explained Mick’s old role as pier enforcer, how he’d grown tired of it over the years, fighting other people’s battles for them, how he’d chucked off the whole endeavor over time. I mentioned my invitation to him last night to join Albert and me for a little dawn patrol. I did what I could to make her see that today should have been a special occasion, just for Mick to be back in the water, having a gas after a lot of years away.
Her forehead grew lines. “How do you know it wasn’t him, J?”
I was lost and my face showed it.
She exhaled. “You know what I mean. This morning. He was there. How do you know he’s not the one who slugged Albert?”
I hadn’t thought of that, but my mind wouldn’t allow for any progress on the subject. It was like looking at a math problem that’s not right, but you don’t know what part. For a time I just listened to the roaring echo of cars rolling down PCH a block away, toeing my wing tip on the blacktop.
“No, I know him,” I said finally. “I’ve known him a long time. That’s not Mick. No way.” I wanted to explain, but I knew she wouldn’t understand how a person like Mickey Conlin could credibly maintain a certain social order by virtue of his presence and reputation alone. How he could enforce an unwritten set of rules in the water without victimizing a hapless soul. I’d never known him to light upon anyone weak or defenseless. Even when he’d taken on me as a schoolkid, I realized later that it was that thing I had that drew him to me, that ability to temporarily override my fears. And for all his fearsome rep, Mick was not one to look for trouble, ever. It was just that, over time, trouble seemed to find him more and more, until he just walked away.
Then again, what if he had just snapped this morning? I pictured Mick streaking through a section, Albert unwittingly cutting him off, a collision, Mick reading it as intentional and dealing a quick retaliation. It was not entirely impossible. Mick never looked for trouble, but he was prone to violence. Or he had been, long ago. Could he have temporarily lost his temper, misplacing his judgment with it? Would he be too ashamed now to admit it to me, the friend who’d invited him to go slide a few? Like it or not, was he still the pier’s enforcer?
Mickey Conlin was capable of plenty, I knew, but I was still staring at a math problem that was wrong. He would not have done Albert this way.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me all the people he’s beaten up had it coming,” Carmen said, her eyes fixed on her brother and the old man playing their games.
I knew enough not to answer. Albert should never have been attacked by anybody for any reason. Regardless of who popped him, Carmen would stay upset about it for a long, long time over this.
“Car, he’s not a thug. Look at the way he helped you find Rudy tonight.”
She folded her arms. “Maybe he feels guilty about Albert.”
I folded my arms, mirroring her stance. “He’s not the guy.”
We endured an uncomfortable silence, staring across the blacktop at an inventory of broken-down cars. I thought about starting over with Carmen—completely. Later tonight
, maybe making the last twenty-four hours up to her with a warm bubble bath, a little champagne, a foot massage. Whatever it took.
“Sorry about this business with Rudy. I got here as soon as I could.”
“I called you at work,” she said. “Your secretary said you’d left early. Said to tell you to call your manager, too, she wants to talk to you.” Carmen dug her hands into the back of her jeans pockets. The temperature was dropping by the minute. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Christ, we were sounding like a married couple, the burned–out kind.
“No. That’s just her thing, riding roughshod on her people.”
Carmen waited as if she’d come to a conclusion. “This is getting to be a problem.”
“I’m telling you, Car, Eloise Horton is not a problem. All she wants …” But I stopped. Carmen had raised a hand and pointed a long finger toward the glass.
“I mean those two, J. That old man needs care and real supervision, not the kind he’s getting.”
“I know. But it’s not that simple. Apparently he’s quite well off, stands to lose it all if Angie and Carlito got hold of him.” I explained what the detective, Tamango Perry, had said about no crime having been committed as of yet.
“Where the hell is his family?”
“His daughter should be here soon, by Monday. Don’t worry, I’ll help Dale keep an eye on him this weekend.”
“He really blew it this afternoon.”
“I know. You said he was asleep. He was probably pretty gassed from last night.”
“He’s homeless, J. It’s no wonder he’s exhausted.”
I pondered the difficulty a man like Dale would encounter sleeping in a Buick during winter. I’ve crashed in my car a few times on surf trips up north when heavy rainfall washed me out of my tent. It sucked. I woke up feeling like a broken accordion. A man over six feet like Dale can’t fold his body in enough places to fit across the seat of a standard automobile, even a boat like that Regal.
“Just a few more days, baby,” I said, gentle as a lullaby, stroking the fine black hair behind her ear. “We’ll get Rudy home safe, and I’ll make it up to you and Albert.” Carmen’s poised loveliness always stirs something fiery and possessive in me. I grabbed her waist and pulled her close.
