by John Decure
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t know you knew about the money.”
“Carmen told me.”
“Well, isn’t that nice.”
“Look, man,” Mick said, “I’m not out to steal your woman. It’s just been a while since I met someone I could talk to.”
“I’ve got a couple of nine hundred numbers you can dial, can take care of that.”
“Ha-ha,” Mick said, peering at the lot. “Think he’s looking for Rudy?”
“Not right now, not here. We have a bit of a history. I met him in a bank lobby. He wanted Rudy’s money, had to be turned away by force.”
“I see.”
“I think I hurt his feelings in the process.”
“Look at that badass stare. He seems to be overdoing it.”
“He tends to run toward overdoing things.”
Carlito was presently vibing a family of pale-faced tourists who looked liked they’d just come off a weeklong jag at Disneyland, the kids still in their mouse ears, stretching beside their rent-a-car and gaping at the spectacle of the great Pacific.
“Hurt his feelings, huh?” Mick said. “Guy like that, how could you even tell?”
“He kind of swore revenge on me.”
“Oh.” Grinning. “So, is this why you lured me out of retirement? Beach protection?”
Mick had turned his back, shielding me from view. I wasn’t looking for a melee, not after what had happened with Albert last week.
“They haven’t spotted me yet,” I said. “We could head back into the water, paddle through the pilings to Southside.”
Mick snorted. “Listen, J., my hassling days are long gone, but I ain’t runnin’ from these baggy-pants bozos in my own backyard.”
“That’s fine, Rambo, but there’s four of them and two of us. That’s two to one.”
Mick cracked his knuckles. “I’ve always admired your math skills.”
“Look at that garb,” I said.
“Definitely going for the full hoodlum look.”
“Achieving it, if you ask me. Bet they’re carrying.”
That stopped Mick. “Think so?” he asked. His voice had gone cold.
“Guy in the beanie was pretty helpless the first time we met. I’m pretty sure he’s not concerned about a fair fight this time around.”
“Well I still ain’t sneakin’ through Southside to get away. What’s your Plan B?”
“I’m working on it.”
Hunkering down in the wet sand, I gazed into the lineup, which was emptying out, now that the wind was on it. The surfers who had ridden lesser-quality waves up the beach were paddling south, moving in on the best peak off the pilings as the local crew dispersed.
“Any thoughts yet, Einstein?” Mick said.
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Perhaps I could build a little strength in numbers. A few guys in the water knew me well enough to want to back me, but how do you ask someone for that kind of favor? Not to mention, recent events aside, this was a generally peaceful beach, the crowds coexisting with little disagreement about who stood where in the pecking order. I’d already upset the social balance last week with the fight over Albert’s punching. The graffiti on the seawall proved that much. But Mick was right; I couldn’t run away in my own backyard. Besides, if they were here now at the pier and I slipped away, they’d be pulling up in front of my house in an hour. Then I’d really be alone.
Carlito was calling me out in public, looking to humiliate me in dramatic fashion.
“Thank God that asshole’s proud,” I said, “or I’d be lying in some alley a block away from home.”
“Probably,” Mick said. “We’re better off facing ’em here.”
I was through hiding and straightened up beside Mick. Carlito was fixing on us now, his chin pointing us out, the grin cocky.
“The guy’s a bit of a showman,” I said.
Mick said, “Well hell yes, look at that beanie, way it’s cocked on his dome. Foot on the bumper like he’s fucking Patton or something. Think they’ll try to take us down here?”
“No, they’ll stay by the car so they can bail fast when they’re done. Sorry about this.”
“About what?”
“We’re gonna get our asses kicked,” I heard myself saying.
Mick squinted back into the sun at me. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, brother.”
“J., Mickey, hey, what’s the haps?” a voice called out from up on the pier. I squinted and saw a shadow leaning on a one-speed bike, the kind with big knobby tires, against the metal railings. He looked like the kid who delivered the local paper weekday afternoons on my street, a thickset local grommet named Charlie, better known as Chubs. He didn’t really know Mick or me, but was merely trying to ingratiate himself with two older, well-established surfers, the way grommets often will to gain more of a toehold in the local surf scene.
The timing couldn’t have been better.
“Hey, Chubs, what’s goin’ on, man?” I said, laying it on.
I asked him if he’d surfed today, why he wasn’t in school. He rode a few on Northside earlier, he said, saw me get a good left into the pier. Teacher conferences today, so no school. Mick rolled his eyes at me, no doubt wondering why in hell I was wasting my time with a lowly grom.
“Anyway, I need a little favor, Chubs. See those guys next to the Impala up there?”
Chubs looked. “Who? The beaners?”
I pictured Carmen’s reaction to being called a beaner.
“Yeah. They’re trying to move in on a friend of mine’s business. His name’s Rod Weesun. He should be at the Marmaduke on Main, that’s his spot. You need to go get him, now, fast as you can, tell him those dudes are setting up shop, and I need his help to run them off, like right now. This minute, Chubs.”
Mick stifled a chuckle. “You are really asking for it, man,” he said under his breath.
“I dunno,” Chubs said, his face a lighter shade. “That guy Weesun’s a biker, and I heard he’s crazy.”
“He’s a surfer, too,” I said, “and like I told you, he’s a friend of mine.”
What I said was quite a stretch. Rodney Weesun hadn’t been seen in the lineup since before he went to prison in ’81 on felony possession-for-sale charges. It was common knowledge that if you needed black market pharmaceuticals or high-grade crystal meth, Rod was your man in Christianitos. I’d heard that in order to survive in prison, Rod had taken up with a white Aryan clan, most of whom were also bikers. He’d said it was either that or be left to fend off the black and Mexican gangs by himself, which wasn’t much of an option. I hadn’t spoken with him in two years, since the night he’d phoned me, drunk off his ass and in jail with no other lawyer to call. That night I bailed him out myself, Rod looking like he’d been through a meat grinder, headfirst, muttering something about a deal being a deal. The Marmaduke was out a plate glass window, a few pool cues, and several bar stools, but Rod was quite sure he’d held his ground. Whatever. I took him home, set him up on my couch, and poured coffee down his throat until he could sit up by himself. As he snapped out of his stupor, Rod began to get nostalgic on me, reminiscing with heartfelt but mostly distorted stories about the old days surfing with the local crew. I let most of it go without comment, since, truthfully, I’d never liked the guy. He’d been a major asshole to me when I was a grommet, hazing me relentlessly. Later on, he became outwardly jealous of my skill at riding Holy Rollers, a hairball big wave reef a half mile off the beach that, for all of Rod’s landlocked bravado, he’d never had the balls to ride. But that night he acted as if we were blood brothers.
The next day I got a call from Rollo Bernardino, one of the better criminal-defense practitioners in Long Beach, thanking me for my dispatch and discretion in aiding his client, Mr. Weesun. My dispatch and discretion—that just killed me. Two days later I got a check from Bernardino’s client trust account for the bail money, and an extra grand, calculated on the check stub as two hours’ legal servi
ces at five hundred dollars an hour. Rod had his lawyer on one hell of a retainer, which was no accident. In his business, you don’t skimp on the quality of your legal representation.
Chubs pedaled his beach cruiser off the pier like a little madman, the voice on the PA system off the lifeguard tower coming to life with a booming directive that riding bicycles on the pier was strictly prohibited. Mickey just shook his head at me.
“Hey, Weesun owes me,” I said. “Shit, he owes both of us. Remember how he used to try to involve you in his little surf battles?”
“I’m way beyond that stuff,” Mick said, checking on Carlito over his shoulder. Then he turned to me. “Let’s get this over with.”
We picked up our boards. As we did, I noticed a few of the guys I’d fought with over Albert last week. They were wet-suited and dripping and standing around near the same white delivery van, sharing a smoke and enjoying the warming sun not more than a dozen spots over from Carlito and his boys. I thought about warning them, but how? Me telling them to leave, they’d take it at face value, get defensive.
“Forget it,” I said absently.
They’d just have to use their heads and stay clear.
We decided to go straight for Carlito, not let him follow us under the pier to the showers, where the guy in the lifeguard tower might not see a gun or knife come out, might miss a falling body The parking lot was about a third full, the pasty tourists still closest to the Impala, oblivious. I walked up to the father, a short fellow in a Universal Studios tee, pleated shorts, and rubber sandals, and quietly told him there was going to be a confrontation and he needed to clear out. “Honey? Kids?” he said. They got the message and split within seconds, the wife looking like she’d just sucked on a lemon.
Carlito smiled. “Told you this wasn’t over.” He took the measure of Mick, standing by my side, and told Mick to mind his own fucking business. Mick didn’t bite, said this was his beach, he’d do as he pleased. Carlito’s homies stepped around the side of the car and seemed ready to engage us.
The deep rumble of Harley-Davidson machinery never sounded so sweet as it did the next moment. Rod Weesun and two other bikers rolled past the tollbooth up on Ocean without stopping to pay and opened up their throttles when Rod spotted the lowered Impala.
“You’re hosed,” I told Carlito. “Better bail now, while you can.”
But Carlito was stuck, having probably popped off to his bros about how easy it would be to roll me, and now not wanting to back down in front of them.
Weesun tipped his aviator shades at Mick and me as he got off his bike. His hair was balding but still long and dirty brown down the sides and back. He’d grown a beard since the night I’d bailed him out, and his gut looked bigger under his black tee. The two guys he’d brought with him wore ancient biker boots and greasy jeans and were as big as bouncers. One had a hawklike nose and bad acne scars, a slack, nothing-to-lose look about him. The other one calmly unwound a heavy chain from beneath his bike’s seat, smiling like a born sadist.
Weesun told Carlito he was way out of his neighborhood and gave him the order to split.
“Vámanos muchachos!” Weesun cackled in their faces.
Carlito said he had business to settle with me. I thought that remark would blow my scheme and make Weesun realize I was using him, but he didn’t catch on. Next thing you knew, the biker with the chain had swung and connected with the side of Carlito’s face, putting him down. Weesun whiffed a punch past the guy in the red headband, who made him pay for his miss by tagging him hard in the ribs, knocking Weesun on his ass. But the hawk-nosed biker was coming in fast, fists flying in every direction. Mick and I stood back, eyeing the two Mexicans across the car’s hood. One looked suitably freaked, but the other, a guy with big tattooed forearms under a creased white tee, was reaching for something in his waistband.
Mick must have seen part of the gun before it was out, or he wouldn’t have dived across the hood and onto the tattooed Mexican the way he did. Then the scared one found some sack and pounced on Mick as he struggled to get the gun away. I moved in and pried the guy off with a chokehold and a pair of thumbs raking his eyes. The gun flashed silver in the sunlight, jammed, and exploded, flattening the Impala’s left front tire.
The Mexican Mick was wrestling with screamed, his hand gnarled and bloody. Mick kicked what was left of the gun, which looked like a tinny Saturday night special, under the Impala. Then a squad car pulled up sideways not ten feet from us, the doors flung open, and two cops drew their guns, shouting orders to freeze.
Just like that, it was over.
I didn’t fare as well with the local police this time. They arrested all of us for public disturbance, took statements, talked about charging the biker with the chain and the Mexican with the gun with assault with a deadly weapon. Weesun apparently was toting a rainbow of Schedule III and IV controlled substances in his saddlebag, so he had problems of his own. After a few hours of stewing in a windowless cell, Mick and I were led to an interrogation room where Buzz Hammond, the chief, was waiting to lecture us on citizenship. Brushing off our claims of self-defense, the chief said he was charging us with one thing and one thing only “for life, boys,” and that was to set a fine example for others, to keep the beaches of Christianitos safe and peaceable. Then he let us go, complaining about the stench a wet wetsuit can cause indoors.
We picked up our boards in the dispatch center, then headed toward the lobby, feeling pretty fortunate all the way around. Passing the same interrogation room, I looked inside. There, where I’d been seated not five minutes ago, was the ragtag crew of surfers I’d fought with over Albert. Silent, awaiting cups of water that a detective was handing around the table, but you could see the outrage in their eyes.
I didn’t get it. They’d had nothing to do with the Carlito episode today, aside from hanging nearby in the parking lot. A young Hispanic uniform, Officer Terraza, the same guy who’d given me a free pass the week before, stepped up to the door from inside and nodded at me officially before he pulled it shut.
“Well, thanks for a fun little surf session, Counselor,” Mick said outside. “Next time you want to go for a paddle, J., please, do me a favor, let me go to work instead.”
“Mick, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to hear it right now.” My wetsuit, peeled down to my waist, reeked of sweat and salt water and itched like hell in the crotch. Carmen was probably going out of her mind again at home, wondering where I’d disappeared to, and I wasn’t relishing having to lie to her about today.
Mick paused when we reached the sidewalk in front of the station. It was a beautiful day for February, no clouds, the sunshine lighting a smogtinged sky that was the color of faded turquoise, and an easygoing sea breeze tilting the palm trees above us.
“Ah, forget it,” he said. “All things considered, we were lucky to get off so easy.”
I was picturing those other surfers in the interrogation room right now.
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” I said.
Seventeen
Carmen leaned with her back against the sink in the kitchen, listening to my summary of Carlito’s ill-timed play. We were sipping coffee, which was my idea, since six hours encased in wet neoprene had left me shaking and clammy, even after I’d showered and thrown on jeans and a tee. Dale sat at the dining table, nursing an ice water. His eyes were sunken as if he’d slept poorly again. Last night was the second time I’d awakened during the night and heard him rocking in a chair downstairs.
Albert and Rudy were in the living room, watching The People’s Court. When I stopped talking, I could hear Judge Wapner chewing a motel manager’s ass for inflating the plaintiff’s room bill.
Carmen’s face seemed to have tightened.
“What?” I said.
“That last part is pure bull, J.,” she said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy having to deal with them that way. Of course you enjoyed it.”
“Car,” I said, “it’s not like they gave us a choi
ce.”
“Oh, please. Of course you had a choice.” She dumped the rest of her coffee in the sink. “You could’ve … paddled away. Or sat out there in the surf until they left.”
“Really? Left for where? They’d have come right over here next. Then what would I have done?”
“You’re right, you’d just have to punch ’em out right here, too, cowboy.” Sarcasm was not her style, and she looked away, regaining something in private. Outside the kitchen window, the branches of the peppertree screened out the sun. Carmen sighed as if she were waiting for me to catch up. “You could try calling the police, J. That’s what normal people do.”
I was stung, having thought I’d handled a dangerous situation with a certain degree of skill. “Hey, it’s not like I haven’t tried. But the only cop I’ve talked to on this case got kicked off of it, through no fault of my own, or his, for that matter.” I finished my cup off, squeezing by a frozen Carmen to drop it in the sink. Getting angry, feeling she was judging a situation she didn’t fully understand. “Lemme tell you something else you may not appreciate.”
She leaned back, pushing my pointed finger away. “Take it down a peg. I don’t like being talked to this way.”
She was right. “Sorry. The thing is, I’m beginning to realize the cops in this town don’t seem to mind a scrape or two here and there as long as the natural order of things is preserved. They have this knack for always showing up just a tick too late to make a difference.”
“What do you mean by ‘natural order’?” she said.
I paused to find the right words. “Maybe this only applies at the beach, but it seems like, if you live here and they know you, they don’t mind if you try to set matters straight.”
“Yeah,” Carmen said, “and if you’re from East L.A. and have dark skin, you’re out of luck.”
“Those guys came down here for one reason: to hurt me. I don’t care if they were purple with pink polka dots.”
“I’m guessing the police would’ve cared. You just said so.”
“No I did not, and this is not about race,” I said slowly. We were at it again.
